


sticks & stones

by 0neType



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Alternate Universe - Underswap, Arguing, Awkwardness, Bodyswap, Developing Friendships, Developing Romance, Discussions of Suicide, Flashbacks, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Making Up, Masturbation, Memory Loss, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Past Fellcest, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Self-Discovery, Sexual Coercion, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Tension, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, and Sans is certainly no help LMAO, b/c lbr US!Pap only ever knows half the information at any given time, last two are on UF!Pap's part in flashbacks, will be added to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 106,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0neType/pseuds/0neType
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Papyrus gets shunted across universes and ends up in a place that is <i>nothing</i> like the Snowdin he calls home. There's no warm welcome to receive him; only the all encompassing feeling of danger that seeps into his bones. Though, maybe calling them <i>his</i> bones would be a bit of a stretch considering he's no longer in his own body. Instead, he has a scar over his eye, pointed claws and teeth as sharp as knives. He's desperate to get back home but, between searching for a way back and keeping up appearances with a sad little skeleton that looks an awful lot like his brother, everything is kind of a mess.</p><p>He can't stay here though. There's just no way.</p><p>So he'll simply have to try harder.</p><p>(<b>or</b>: us!pap gets stuck in underfell and regrets ever attempting to science D':)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the full title is "sticks & stones may break my bones, but words'll make me believe I deserve it"
> 
> that's unwieldly af tho D':

When Papyrus wakes up, he’s confused.

The room is dark and he’s lying down on his mattress. Everything’s a little hazy in his thoughts and he feels groggy and slow. He sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist as he holds a hand up to his head.

How in the hell did he get here?

He doesn’t remember going to bed. Doesn’t even remember opening the door to his room. Frankly, he doesn’t remember _anything_ past the bright white light of his lab when he’d—

His eyes go wide and he rips back the covers, shooting out of bed.

_The machine._

He—he’d fixed it! He’d _finally_ fixed it! Or, at the very least, managed to get it to _do_ something.

Excitement bubbles up inside him at the thought. He stumbles around in the dark and makes his way towards his bedroom door. He’s practically giddy with the knowledge of his accomplishment. He’s done it. After all this time and effort, he’s finally managed to make that damn machine _do_ something.

He slams open his bedroom door and rushes down the stairs. A glance out the window shows that it’s night outside and Papyrus grins. It had been early morning when he’d finalized his latest adjustments to the machine. Either several hours have passed or some sort of time travel is at work here.

His soul leaps at the thought of it being the latter.

In three short strides from the bottom of the stairs, he’s at the front door. He twists it open and steps outside. The chill bites into him immediately. He hasn’t bothered to grab his shoes, too excited to wait even a moment longer. His bones press into the fresh snow that’s falling as he runs around to the back of the house. Even in the dark of the night, he knows exactly where the door is and he reaches out with trembling hands. He twists at the knob.

It’s locked.

He laughs a little at himself and his eagerness. He shakes his head, remembers the key in his pocket. He makes to stick his hand in the front of his—

…………

_Huh_.

He’s… he’s not wearing his hoodie.

That thought leads to a sudden flash of something in his mind. It’s almost piercing and Papyrus raises a hand up to press at his skull, hissing at the pain. It pushes at his thoughts, begging to be let in. He shakes his head and the pain recedes.

He frowns.

He doesn’t have time for this. He needs to get back to the matter at hand.

He… must have left his hoodie in his room.

There’s no time to waste—not when he’s at the verge of discovering exactly what his tireless working has afforded him. In the name of getting right back to it, he lets the magic in him surge forth, his right eye lighting up. In hardly a second, he blips from the back of the house to the top of the stairs, safely teleported inside.

This time, when he steps into his room, he flicks on the light. The lightbulb flickers—once, twice—before flooding the room with its glare. Papyrus takes half a hasty step in before he stops. His soul stutters in his chest.

His room is clean.

Which… is not in itself _strange_ but…

It’s more unusual than that. This is not like when Sans cleans his room for him. Things are all neat and orderly, which is fine, but… it’s _sparse_. It looks practically unlived in. There’s no clutter to be seen anywhere… and his room has _never_ looked like that.

A sense of dread is sinking into his bones. He feels like he’s missing something. Like he’s skipped a chapter in a book and the plot has sped along without him.

His gaze drags along his room before finally landing on his closet. Maybe Sans had put his things away? He slowly makes his way over, feeling a lot more cautious than he had just a second ago. He stops in front of the closet door, looking it over but seeing nothing out of place. He hesitates for a second. Then reaches to twist the knob.

And stops.

He stares at his hand.

He’s… wearing a glove.

Two, actually. Glove _s_. One on each hand.

Red. Clawed.

He brings his hands closer, trying to ignore how they’re shaking with the growing trepidation inside of him. Upon closer inspection, it’s more of a gauntlet on his hands than anything. The material is hardened, like armour, and the claws are sharpened to a point. He doesn’t understand.

Why is he wearing these?

What in the _hell_ is going on?

The pain in his skull returns, pushing at him over and over. He grits his teeth and ignores it.

As if in response to his increasing panic, he hears a strangled scream reach him. Immediately he whips around, soul pounding frantically between his ribs. His bedroom door is still open. The screaming had sounded like it had come from down the hall.

It… it sounded like _Sans_.

His chest feels tight. He races out of his bedroom and down the hall to his brother’s door. He’s about to wrench it open when he pauses yet again at the sight of his hands. He hesitates. There’s something off here and he has yet to discover what it is. He doesn’t know what’s happening; doesn’t know what he’s going to find when he opens that door. He considers backing away till he’s more certain of his situation.

But then something like a broken sob drifts from his brother’s room and Papyrus can’t hold himself back. Sans _needs_ him.

He twists the door open.

The room is dark but he doesn’t need to see to know that his brother is hurting. The sounds of pained gasps are clearer than ever. As he pushes the door fully open, light streams in.

Even with only the light of the hallway dimly lighting the room, Papyrus can see the way his brother is shaking and shuddering in his sleep. Sans is clearly in the midst of a nightmare. He moves into the room, steps light as he approaches his brother’s bed.

There’s another spark of wrongness when he notices that the bed is much lower to the ground than usual. He stills. Frowns when he realises that it’s because his brother is laying on a mattress on the floor, his bedframe no where in sight. His soul pulses in a way that’s just as offbeat as the everything around him seems to be.

But this isn’t the time to focus on that.

He looks down at his brother. Sans’s face is twisted in anguish.

“Sans,” he moves to gently stroke his brother’s face, stops himself just in time when he remembers his claws, “Shhh, I’m here, bro.”

Sans is shaking still, his voice doing nothing to soothe him. Papyrus clenches and unclenches his fists, wonders if he should take off the gloves so he can calm him down without hurting him. Sans whimpers and his soul hurts at the sound of it.

“Hey, it’s okay little bro,” he moves to sit down on the mattress, “It’s gonna be—”

He’s barely shifted his weight down when Sans jolts awake, eyes shooting open.

“Who’s there?!” He gasps, voice choked and rough.

The room is abruptly awash in red light. Sans’ magic is the source of it and the red burns from his eyes like fire. It is unfamiliar and disconcerting. Papyrus stares; feels like he’s drowning in the unknown. He doesn’t know what to make of this development.

He tries not to let his voice tremble but it’s a struggle, “I-It’s just me, bro. It’s me.”

Sans squints in the dark and looks around, still caught somewhere between his nightmare and reality. His brother looks confused. Papyrus can relate. Sans can’t seem to place the source of his voice.

Papyrus rests a hand on his shoulder, careful of the sharpness of his fingertips, and whispers, “Right here.”

Sans flinches at the touch. His head whips around to look at his hand, just resting there softly. His expression is completely bewildered. He follows the hand up to Papyrus’s face. There’s a moment where Sans just stares at him. Then his face morphs. Papyrus has never seen it look so stricken in his life.

“F-fuck,” Funnily enough, _that_ more than anything else, confirms for Papyrus that something is seriously, _gravely_ wrong. His brother _never_ swears, “Fuck, bro—b-boss. Shit, w-was I too loud again?”

Papyrus isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. Everything about this situation feels awkward and uncomfortable, like he shouldn’t even be here. So he just tells Sans the truth, “I was in my room and I heard you scream so… I came in here. To check on you.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say. Sans looks like he’s going to be sick. He starts to shake even harder, “Fuckin’ hell. S-sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to wake you. I-I… I couldn’t…”

Papyrus’s soul _aches_. He can’t stand to see his brother like this. It doesn’t matter how strange everything has been since he’s woken up. Sans is _Sans_ , and if his brother is hurting then it’s his job to fix it. Bound by instinct, he reaches out to hug him.

His arms are only just beginning to close around his brother’s smaller frame when Sans gives another pained whimper. He scrambles away from Papyrus’s reach quicker than he can react, going as far as to fall right off the mattress and onto the floor. He’s covering his face with his arms and desperately trying to hold back what sounds like sobs.

“P-please! Please d-don’t, boss!”

Papyrus has never heard his brother’s voice sound like that.

Fearful. Broken.

The stinging in his head returns once again, more insistent than ever.

Sans has his eyes squeezed shut, “I-I swear I won’t do it again. I p-promise.”

It’s prodding at him. Right between his eyes. Deliberate and unrelenting.

Papyrus can’t handle the confusion. Can’t handle not knowing what’s going on. Can’t handle a Sans who looks at him with this much _fear_. He wants, so _badly_ , to understand.

So when the feeling continues to push at him, he doesn’t hold it back. This time, he lets it push. This time, he relents.

And a memory pours in.

_His hands are around Sans’s neck, the only thing that’s stifling his **incessant** crying. He’s furious. **Furious**. He has to wake up for patrol in just an **hour** and Sans. Won’t. **Stop**. With his **pathetic** yelling and screaming. Even now, he’s begging between gasps of air. “It hurts. It h-hurts, boss.” Sans’ tears are spilling over his gloves and he’s so **disgusted**. “Good,” he spits, “It’s supposed to.” He’s **revolting**. He’s absolutely—_

Papyrus jerks so hard he stumbles backwards off the mattress.

His eyes are wide and it takes a second for him to register the fact that he’s gasping, one hand pressed to his chest. His right eye flares with magic. He feels like he’s going to throw up.

What was _that_?

Where _is_ he?

Was it the machine? Did it not travel through time at all? Did it send him _here_ instead? To this place where everything is just a little off? To this place where his brother can’t look at him in the eye?

_Fuck._ What was going _on_?

He glances back up at Sans, but his brother— _was_ this even his brother? —still isn’t looking at him. He’s cowering, curled up in a corner. Papyrus feels heavy with the horrible knowledge of why exactly he might think it was necessary. He wants to console him but the new-found memory is still playing over and over in his head.

He has a feeling that the kindest thing he can do at this point is just to leave.

So he does.

It goes against his very nature but, with one last look at the skeleton shaking on the floor, Papyrus blips right out of the room.

If he wants to fix things, he needs to figure out exactly what is happening here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bodyswapppp B')
> 
> idk if it's been done before but, heck, you can never have too much confusion and chaos can u? now, the machine in the lab being used as a plot device? that's _definitely_ been done. but how else do I get a cross-au ship to be feasible? ;)
> 
> ~~also, bodyswap is probably a tag I should add to the main fic tags but...?? does that count as spoiler-y for this first chapter? I feel like you guys probably figured it out right away (before poor paps at least; he won't quite make sense of it till next chapter) but I didn't add it just in case. ahhhh let me know if you think I should put it in,,,~~


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t sleep.

He has suspicions that he needs to confirm after all, and he can’t do that without putting in a little effort.

Among the first things he does is take a good look at himself. That, in itself, proves to be a battle since there’s no sight of a proper reflective surface anywhere. He digs through his—god, does it even _count_ as his? —closet as a last resort. He ignores the unfamiliar racks of dark clothing and dense armour. Finally, he finds a mirror.

Or, the shattered pieces of one anyway.

There’s the pulse of another memory and he gasps aloud as it hits his mind in a wave.

It almost seems like it’s stronger than the one from earlier. He wonders if it’s because he already let one break through. He can’t cast it away, has to let it push into his thoughts. He’s helpless against the images that flood into his mind.

 _Jagged pieces. So, so, **sharp**. His bones are softer than his own anyway. It would just take a little more pressure. Just a little_ — _a ridiculously **small** amount really_ — _and in no time at all it should… Ah. **There** it is. Down to the marrow. There’s a sharp inhalation of breath. The bone wells up red. The hand in his **shakes**. He doesn’t bother to look up, steels his voice. “This training is necessary.” There’s no response. He feels almost proud. But that’s no reason to stop. He lowers his voice, feels the hand grasped in his **tense** as he digs deeper, “Besides. You need to learn to be more careful with **my things**.”_

When it fades, he takes a moment. He steadies himself against the frame of the closet and stares down at the large piece of mirror in his hand. It’s clean. No trace of red. The focus of the gaze from his memory had been down at the boney hand in his, so he doesn’t know who it was that was there with him… but…

But he thinks he can make a decent guess.

He’s feeling nauseous again.

He lifts the mirror shard up to face-level, nearly drops it when he gets a look at his face. The reflection he sees is so shockingly different from what he’s used to.

He takes a breath and lifts it up again, stills himself when his suspicions are confirmed.

This is definitely not his body.

There’s scarring, clawed and angry, cutting into the bone across his right socket. It frames eyes just as unfamiliar. They’re much, much darker than he’s used to, like endless voids bereft of mercy. His soul churns at the thought.

He looks away. Takes a moment to gather himself from the horror he has to face. Then he looks back at the face in the mirror, tries to read into the features there. His cheekbones are more angular and his teeth almost purposefully pointed. Everything about him seems to be sharp and angry.

It’s… difficult to process.

It’s uncanny, looking at himself and seeing so much of the same and yet… so much that’s completely altered from the usual. His own face makes him feel weird. He puts the mirror down.

So that’s it then.

This is definitely, _definitely_ not his body.

The memories assaulting him had said as much but… his reflection had confirmed it.

Which suggests…

He gets up, gives the room a cursory look. He sighs. He thinks he knows but he still has to make certain, and there’s a lot more to look through…

By the time morning rolls around, Papyrus hasn’t slept a wink. Unfortunately, he hasn’t made much progress either. The only thing he’s more or less confirmed is that he’s done a lot more than just timeline hopping. He’s been sent to a universe separate to his own. A universe that had similar people and similar relationships but where everything was just a little off.

A universe where things are somehow a _lot_ grimmer than he’s used to.

Thanks to his counterpart’s memories, he hadn’t even needed to leave the house to learn that.

Second hand knowledge flowed into him like a never-ending stream. Even the most innocuous objects he’d found could trigger memories. Memories that were horrible at their best and _gruesome_ at their absolute worst.

(He found himself, at the very least, thankful that not _all_ of them had to do with Sans.)

Through the memories he was starting to map out his alternate’s personality. It wasn’t exactly a _pleasant_ task but… he figured it may come in handy if he needed to impersonate him. After all, he had no idea how long he’d be stuck here. Especially since he still didn’t have access to the lab.

Which, of course, brought him back to the key.

The next step _had_ been to find it but…

He’d turned his other self’s room upside-down and hadn’t found anything even _remotely_ like a key to the lab. Not ready to give up, he’d then proceeded to searching through the house. He’d checked in every cabinet and under every couch cushion. He’d searched with a thoroughness and dedication that would have left his brother back home speechless.

But to no avail. He found nothing.

So then he’d tried to force the door open.

In his universe, that would’ve been impossible; he’d built the door to resist a number of different methods of forced entry. But, he’d hoped, that maybe this place’s Papyrus wouldn’t have planned things out so carefully. So he’d tried a number of things; from picking the lock to taking out his blasters. He’d even tried teleporting directly inside. But… nothing worked.

Clearly, there would be no getting in without the key.

After that plan of action fell through, Papyrus had tried one final thing. An undertaking he’d been leaving as a last resort.

Specifically, he’d tried to trigger another memory.

Since every single memory thus far had been triggered in response to a situation or object at hand, he’d figured that if he focused on the key hard enough he’d be able to find out where the other Papyrus kept it hidden.

It was a good idea in theory but…

 _He dangles the key in front of Sans’ gaze, smug. His brother struggles against his restraints, “Papyr_ — _” He strikes him, **hard** , across his face. “What. Did I **tell** you?” Sans ducks his head. “S-sorry, boss.” He pushes his brother’s face down to the ground, takes **pleasure** in the way he shudders. “ **This** is why I have to do this to you. You never seem to be able to follow even the **simplest** of instructions.” Sans doesn’t look up, just whispers, “I’m sorry.” He snorts and gets up, kicks his brother in the side. He tosses the key at his feet. “Whatever. I’ll unlock you when I’m **sure** you’ve learned your lesson.” Sans does not respond, does not make to get up off the floor. With a growing sense of **revulsion** , he leaves._

Papyrus had stopped trying to trigger memories after that.

He was _tired_. He hadn’t slept in hours and he just… he just wasn’t in any state to deal with another horror committed by his other self. There probably _was_ a memory of the appropriate key somewhere in there but… he wasn’t willing to risk it quite yet. He’d needed a break.

So he’d dragged himself to the living room with the last of his energy.

Now he sits on the couch in front of the TV and stares ahead into the screen. He’s not paying any real attention to what’s on. He couldn’t if he tried. He’s doing it just for the sake of doing something, _anything_ , to get his mind off his situation.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there but, that’s where he is when Sans finally comes down.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Papyrus can see him stop short when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He spots that Sans looks a little more put together than he had last night, though he seems to have a permanently weary air about him. He also notes that Sans is clearly surprised to see him. When he realises that Papyrus has noticed him, his face shifts and his expression becomes hard to place.

“Boss,” Sans pauses, seems to consider his words, “You’re home.”

It’s both a statement and a question. Papyrus sinks further into the couch, “Yeah.”

He’s not ready for this. He should’ve prepared or something. Acted out his newfound persona in front of a mirror.

Sans walks a little closer and Papyrus can clearly see him for the first time. His soul feels like it’s constricting.

This Sans is so _different_ from his brother.

His eyes are red, even now, with no nightmares to blame for the aberration. There’s a crack along the side of his skull, crossing to the top of his head. His teeth are jagged, one canine gold against the pearly whites. He’s very plainly nervous, holding himself inward like he doesn’t want to be a bother.

He’s so, _so_ _different_ from his brother.

And yet his soul tells him that, at their core, they are the same.

Sans frowns, shifts a little where he stands, “…shouldn’t you be on patrol?”

He shrugs, “Was too tired to go. Couldn’t sleep.”

Instantly, Sans flinches, “S-sorry.”

 _Fuck_.

Papyrus could _kick_ himself. He should’ve worded it better. He saw the memory; he _knew_ what had happened. Sans’ gaze is contrite; there’s no doubt that he blames himself. This clearly isn’t the first, or even the second time a nightmare has kept his counterpart up. This Sans expects retribution for sins he’s learned to call his own.

Papyrus’s soul aches and the urge to set the smaller skeleton at ease fills him.

“It’s fine,” he blurts and Sans’ head snaps up to look at him, “Don’t worry about it.”

“… w-what?”

Sans seems disoriented, like he didn’t expect to be let off so easily. Papyrus feels a deep sinking inside him when he considers what that means.

There’s so much he wants to ask. So much he wants to _say_ …

But. Now is not the time. He has no idea how this place works. Doesn’t know if his actions will ruin the timeline if he doesn’t play along and pretend to be the Papyrus that _belongs_ here. So… pretend is what he’ll do.

He takes a breath to steady himself.

“Do you—” But even as the words start to tumble out of his mouth he knows this is something this Sans’ brother would _never_ say, “—wanna watch TV with me?”

Sans turns his head slowly, sight lingering on him before turning to the TV. There’s some robot on the screen. Which. Well, it would be a familiar relief but the robot looks _nothing_ like Napstaton and the show is _definitely_ not about music. There’s actually a surprising amount of gore. Papyrus winces at the sight.

“I…” Sans starts, voice wavering and words unsure, “Have to go… to work.”

“Right. Okay. Have fun.”

Sans gives him a weird look, stuck somewhere between confusion and a grimace. Papyrus wants to scream. He knows the sorts of things he’s _supposed_ to say to keep up appearances but his mouth just won’t cooperate. Instead it keeps spitting out awkward strings of words that do nothing but make him look suspiciously out of place.

There’s a tense pause. Sans stares at him, quiet and intent. Papyrus tries desperately not to break under his scrutiny.

Then, “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

H… his _eyes_? Oh fuck, does he mean the scar? _Shit_. He hasn’t seen a memory related to that, he has no idea where it came from. Is it _new_? Was it a side-effect of the machine? How does he explain—but wait. Sans said eye _s_ ; as in _both_ of them. The scar is only over _one_ eye. So… there’s something _else_ that’s different? Though he still has no clue what it could be. This face is new to him, these _eyes_ are new to him, so _everything_ is different from his perspective and that means he can’t answer the question and, _fuck_ , he’s going to be found out, what’s going to happen if he gets caught, shit, he’s panicking and Sans is _still staring_ and—

And he realises.

He realises that… he doesn’t have to answer at all.

There’s a dead chill that settles in his spine as he thinks of it, but there’s really no other choice. Besides, he _had_ said that he’d pretend hadn’t he? And that meant making good on his word.

He snaps his gaze to Sans as confidently as he can, ignores the sinking feeling inside him when his brother’s twin barely manages to hold back a wince. He steels his voice, lets it come as a growl, “I don’t see how it’s any business of yours.”

He glares, as best he can. His soul twists painfully when Sans can’t maintain eye contact. His brother’s counterpart directs his gaze to the floor and mumbles out an apology. Papyrus resists the impulse to reach out and comfort him.

Sans doesn’t say anything further, simply puts on his shoes and leaves out the front door.

Papyrus finds himself left, once again, to his own devices.

He’s beyond relieved. He runs a hand down his face and falls onto his side on the couch. He tries really hard not to think about this Sans and how close to breaking he seems.

(It's not as if he can _do_ anything about it anyway.)

He thinks, instead, on his situation; summarizes what he knows and what he doesn’t.

He’s _certain_ that fiddling with the machine is what brought him here. Ergo, the only way to get back is to work on the machine on _this_ side. The only way to access the lab with the machine is the key. He cannot, for the life of him, _find_ that key. He has the memories of his counterpart stored away inside his mind. He can call them up when he thinks about something related to the memory. Presumably, this is the easiest way for him to figure out where this Papyrus has hidden the key.

The biggest hurdle to overcome?

Every memory he’s been confronted with so far has left him feeling gross and emotionally drained.

Papyrus groans in frustration.

He only has one option here and he knows it. He _has_ to keep working at the memories. No matter how uncomfortable they may be. It’s… his best chance at getting home and leaving this mess behind him.

He sits up. Considers. Nods to himself when he decides that this is definitely the best plan he has. After all, forcing himself through memories is nothing in the face of getting home.

But.

First.

He rubs at his chest, his soul pinching with hunger.

He hasn’t eaten in basically an entire day at this point. He’s low on magic. That, combined with a lack of sleep and a terrible prolonged sense of unease makes for horrible conditions for viewing awful scenes from his twin’s past. If he’s going to do this, he should at least try to make himself as comfortable as possible.

He sighs, gets up and heads into the kitchen.

It’s… not too different from the one back home, if obviously a little unloved. Much like his bedroom here, the kitchen does not look like it gets much use. Papyrus walks over to the fridge and pulls it open. There’s… nothing inside. _Nothing_. Not even a damn taco shell.

With a grumble, he slams it closed and—

_He slams the fridge closed and Sans flinches. He holds the brown paper bag high up in the air. “What the **hell** is this?” Sans looks up at it, sweat breaking out over his forehead, “I, uh. I got us some shit from Grillby’s, boss.” Papyrus can feel the heat of anger wash over him. He wants to smash the bag into Sans, **stupid** , **worthless** face, “ **Shit** is **right**. How many times have I told you not to eat this **filth** , Sans?” Sans is staring at him, fearful and apologetic. As he should be. “And yet, you thought it’d be **funny** to bring it home, did you?” Sans shakes his head, “N-no, boss. I just…” Disgusting. He’s so **weak**. “You just, **what**?” Sans shrugs his shoulders, laughs a little, “I figured you’d rather eat **that** than have another night of my fucking **awful** cooking.” Papyrus can see the way he’s trembling. Can see how he’s just barely holding himself together. He gives a lengthy sigh, “I suppose I should be thankful you have **that** much sense.” He throws the bag at Sans who only just manages to catch it in time. “ **Fine**. Let’s eat.”_

“Fuck…” Papyrus steadies himself against a counter, “Doesn’t he have _any_ good memories with Sans? What the hell…”

He’s glad, at least, that this one was milder than the others. Though, it doesn’t do anything to make him feel better about basically sharing the same core make-up as the guy. He leans back heavily. Closes his eyes and catches his breath.

(He hates this.)

His soul pinches at him like a reminder and he rubs again at his chest. The fact that he needs to eat hasn’t changed.

He eyes the fridge.

Grillby’s, was it…?

He hopes it’s at least half as good as Muffet’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2? More like Exposition: The Chapter, amirite?
> 
> It was necessary tho and, now that we've got all _that_ out of the way, hopefully we can get to the good stuff B')
> 
> next chapter will feature a _lot_ more of uf!sans!!!!! ~~_**finally**_~~ and probably also grillby


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been getting a lot of questions about this so I'll just go ahead and clear it up here:
> 
> Since the fic is from Swap!Pap's POV, we won't know what's going on with Blueberry and Fell!Pap till _he_ does. B)
> 
> Will it be covered in the fic? **Yes.**
> 
> Will it be soon? Probably not. D':

The moment he steps outside the house, he stiffens.

Now that he’s paying attention, things are already different to what they’re like back home. There’s no welcome mat outside their door and the steps up to the door itself are chipped and old. As he walks out further and turns around, he sees there’s no wreaths or lights decorating the place either. He glances to his left and sees a lone mailbox standing tall next to the house; he doesn’t need to look closer to know in his gut that it’s not labeled Sans.

He starts to walk.

The town is remarkably quiet for the time of day it is. He’s so used to the bustling atmosphere back home that the silence here seems almost surreal. He stops in front of the library and sees that it’s boarded up. The windows are shattered where the boards do not cover them and the sign itself is missing several letters. There’s not a whisper as he passes by the door.

He’s heading in the direction of where the inn would be if this was _his_ Snowdin. He figures he can ask the people there for directions to Grillby’s since he has no idea where it is. He can see a tall tree in the distance and his heart warms when he thinks of the Gryftmas tree back home. This one doesn’t seem to be decorated, but just the sight of it makes him feel a little better. He’s so busy reminiscing that he doesn’t see the two small blurs that run out in front of him.

The impact is enough to knock him back, though he doesn’t fall over. As he steadies himself, he sees the two small monsters that have dropped into the snow. His eyes light up; they’re kids.

He smiles down at them, “You guys okay?”

They do not smile back.

The one in the long scarf whimpers, “P-please don’t hurt us.”

“Don’t beg!” The other child hisses at the first, but their eyes stay trained on Papyrus and explicitly betray their fear.

The smile falls off his face. He grits his teeth, the wrongness of this place tugging at his ribs. Kids shouldn’t look like that. Kids should _never_ have reason to look so _scared_.

“I won’t.” He promises, puts out a gloved hand to help them up.

They yelp and crawl backwards as his hand comes down. Neither of them makes a move to take it. They stare at it, bodies radiating mistrust. The fear in their expressions does not lessen. Papyrus withdraws his hand.

“Just…” If he wasn’t feeling homesick before, he certainly is now, “Just go.”

The kids are staring up at him in shock. It doesn’t look like they believe he’ll actually let them off without some greater admonishment. Before he can say anything else though, self-preservation seems to kick in and the kids are quickly back up and scrambling away from him. They rush off into the distance, never once looking back to see that he’s not following.

Papyrus is so _tired_ of this universe. He’s hardly been here a day and he just wants to be home already. Home, where kids aren’t scared to play outside and where his brother laughs with nothing less than true joy in his eyes. He sighs, forces himself to continue walking.

As the tree in the distance comes closer, the sounds of voices reach him. Curious, Papyrus hastens his step a little. He doesn’t have to go much further before he’s greeted with a well-lit store front right where Muffet’s would’ve been back home. The neon sign outside declares 'GRILLBY’S' in flashing purple and blue. A smaller sign underneath proclaims it to be both a bar and grill. He supposes he’s lucky that he won’t need to stop by the inn after all.

It doesn’t make him feel any better.

He makes for the front door, pauses at the burst of rancorous laughter pouring from inside. The voices are rowdy and music can be heard playing in the background. Even from the other side of the door, the stench of alcohol is unmistakeable. He spares a moment to wonder what his brother would think of him walking into a bar like this before pushing away the thoughts and opening the door.

As he steps into the warmth of the establishment, he’s unprepared for the immediate hush that falls over those gathered. The silence is palpable as the doors shut behind him and Papyrus stills in the sudden change of volume. He looks around to find everyone staring. Somehow, he’s the object of attention to a dozen pairs of eyes. His body tenses automatically, as if preparing for a fight.

“Your brother’s not here.” Calls out a voice and Papyrus directs his gaze to the tall fire elemental looking at him from the back.

His words are enough to prompt others to start howling— _literally_ ; a fair portion of the patrons seem to be dog monsters—with laughter. The silence is broken and Papyrus is already sure he preferred the quiet. The opposite is much, _much_ worse.

“Strange seeing you here, boss,” one chortles, “Have you changed your mind about putting on a show for us?”

Another monster positively _leers_ at him, “It won’t be like your brother, but I’m _sure_ we could make do.”

Papyrus bristles at the implications of their words. He may not know this universe’s Sans very well, but the protective instinct lingers still. He knows he can’t do anything about it though. He doesn’t know this place or these people well enough to trust himself to make the right moves.

His face feels a little hot and he hopes that they mistake his anger for an embarrassed flush. He certainly feels enough of both.

The man that had called out earlier smirks at him from across the room. He walks out from behind the bar, dress shoes clacking against the hard wood floor as he does. He walks like he owns the place, tall and important. Papyrus figures that must mean this is Grillby.

There’s no memory to flash at him, but the name settles well in his mind and he’s sure he’s right. Even so, he doesn’t relax; his body won’t let him. His posture stays tensed and at the ready as the elemental approaches.

“Now, now, everyone. Let’s not be _crass_ ,” Grillby drawls, “This is a special occasion! It’s not every day that our very own Head of the Snowdin Guard comes to visit!”

There’s more laughter at that and Grillby soaks it in, turning his gaze up at Papyrus as if waiting for a reaction. Papyrus doesn’t know what to give him. He vaguely recalls a Grillby back home, but he was _nothing_ like this and there are no intruding memories to help him understand the person that stands in front of him now. So, instead, he simply holds Grillby’s gaze, expression stern and unyielding.

He feels a trill of relief when the smug expression on his face falters.

“Well?” Grillby snaps, hardwood sizzling as his spittle hits the floor, “What do you want? I already told you your brother’s not here.”

Papyrus opens his mouth. He’s about to answer when he remembers the way his counterpart makes every statement a demand. He takes a second, lets his body’s trained reflexes direct his tone, “I’m here to order something to eat.”

The bar goes quiet once more. Grillby stares at him. Blinks in confusion, “…what?”

He doesn’t know what it is but, something about the stupefied expression on the purple monster’s face gives him a surge of satisfaction. He feels the sides of his mouth twitch, like a grin begging to be formed. When he speaks again, the superiority is easy to inflect into his words, “I’m afraid I won’t be eating _here_ though. You’ll have to pack it up to go.”

The bar patrons are exchanging uneasy glances, still hushed. The edges of Grillby’s form are flaming brighter, smaller wisps of fire flickering up and off of him like angry wasps. He narrows his gaze at Papyrus.

“I was under the impression that _jokes_ were your brother’s area, not yours.”

At that, Papyrus _does_ relax; he can’t help it. Because jokes _are_ his area. At least back where he’s from.

A wide grin spreads over his face that is all his own. He winks, “Don’t look so _put out_ , Grillby.”

There’s a shocked gasp from those watching. Papyrus swears he can hear a nervous giggle from somewhere to his left. As it is, he’s only focusing on Grillby’s face, trying to gauge his reaction. The fire elemental does not look amused.

“It runs in the family,” he continues, shrugging casually, “I guess you could say that we both… feel it in our _bones_.”

A titter runs through the crowd—hesitant laughter, low and unsure. The tall monster in front of him is making a face like he’s tasted something disgusting. Papyrus smiles. He’s feeling more in his element than he has ever since he got here.

The purple monster scrunches up his face, opens his mouth, “Are you—”

But Papyrus never gets to hear what Grillby meant to say because, at that moment, there’s a loud thud against the door behind him. Papyrus turns to stare at it along with the other patrons of the bar. There’s loud swearing from the other side.

“Come on, Sansy,” A drunken voice whines, “Just once!”

“If you don’t get the fuck off of me, your family’s gonna have a fresh pile of dust to deal with by the end of the day.” Sans’ voice reaches him, impatient and angry. Papyrus has never heard it like that before. He hasn’t exactly spent a lot of time around this version of his brother but, between the nightmare last night and the words exchanged this morning, he hadn’t pinned the guy as much of a talker.

It occurs to him now that that might have more to do with _who_ he was talking to rather than his personality itself.

“It won’t take long,” the other monster grouses as the door slams open. Papyrus can see a small bunny, clearly drunk and clinging to Sans’ legs, “It’s not like you take your sentry position seriously anyway.”

Sans is still glowering down at the monster at his feet as he snorts, “Yeah? And what do you propose we tell my brother when he—”

Sans looks up, falls silent.

Papyrus stares at him.

Sans stares back.

The bar glances between them, waiting.

The bunny is the first to speak, promptly scrambling up from the floor upon catching sight of Papyrus. They speak with all the grace of someone completely smashed out of their mind, “Oh, shit—! Haha, t-this…! This is not… I-I was not—was not, uhh, expecting to see you… umm, s-sir…”

Papyrus barely shifts his gaze in their direction and the bunny stumbles back in alarm.

Sans winces at their awkward retreat as they push away from him but doesn’t take his eyes of Papyrus. He’s fidgeting where he stands. Papyrus goes from feeling in his element to going right back to feeling like he’s wading in a sea of unknowns.

He doesn’t speak so Sans fills the silence instead, “Boss… what, uh… w-what are you doing here?”

He directs the question at Papyrus but it doesn’t seem as if he actually expects him to answer. Even as he asks, his gaze slides past him to Grillby standing behind him. Papyrus twists back slightly to see the tall monster give a shrug and a shake of his head.

“He says he’s here to _eat_.” The tone of his voice makes it clear exactly what he thinks of that.

Sans’ expression goes incredulous as he turns back to him, “B-boss?”

Papyrus tries to get the earlier confidence back into his posture and voice but it’s hard when he’s feeling like he never should’ve left the house in the first place. He’s tense and uncomfortable and regretting every life choice that brought him here to this moment. Even still, he tries to act the part best he can, “Yes. It’s true.”

“Is that so?” Grillby’s not the type of monster with eyes but Papyrus gets the impression that he’d be rolling them if he was, “Well then, go ahead and make your order.”

Papyrus manages to glare at him before snapping his gaze back at Sans and beckoning him forward with a crook of his finger. It seems a little heavy handed but Sans moves up before he can second-guess his impersonation abilities. It’s… actually kind of strange how quickly he responds, running over to his side. Thankfully, by this point, the bar’s patrons seem to realise there isn’t going to be a fight and return to their drinks.

He looks down at his brother’s twin, keeps his tone carefully disinterested, “What do you usually get?”

Sans looks at him warily, “M-me?”

“If I’m ordering, I might as well get enough for two,” He shrugs, tries not falter under the shock in Sans’ face, “Pick something both of us can eat.”

Sans stares at him a moment longer before facing Grillby who looks almost affronted that Papyrus has _indeed_ come to eat something. The next moment, he’s all business, taking down Sans’ order and heading off into the kitchen at the back.

There’s a tense few minutes that Papyrus sits next to Sans and wonders whether he should strike up a conversation. Sans, however, is turned slightly away from him, head down on the bar and approachability at an absolute zero. Frankly, that sort of comes as a relief. He’s not sure what he would say if they _did_ have a talk.

They wait without speaking, letting the chatter of the bar fill their lack of discussion.

When Grillby returns, he hands off the bagged up meals to Sans.

It’s all perfectly fine up until Grillby lets a slow smile stretch across his face, “And how will you be paying for your order today?”

Sans freezes beside him, shoots a venomous look the bar owner’s way.

“ _Stop_.” He hisses.

Papyrus doesn’t understand the question. Aren’t they going to be paying with gold? Is the currency different here? He turns to ask Sans when he remembers that they don’t exactly have the kind of relationship that allows for that. In turning, however, he notices the beginnings of a flush on Sans’ face.

It strikes him that maybe he’s missing more than just a change of legal tender.

He fishes out the gold pieces he pocketed from his counterpart’s room earlier, slams them against the bar top. He puts on what he feels is a suitably intimidating growl, “We’ll pay the usual way.”

If anything Sans flushes _deeper_ at that.

“If you’re paying the _usual_ way, then there’s no need for _this_ ,” Grillby pushes the coins back to Papyrus and gives him what would be a toothy grin on most other monsters, “I’ll go ahead and add it to Sans’ tab.”

He makes to retort when he’s cut off.

There’s a rush of magic beside him followed by a loud smashing as the back bar explodes, sending pieces of glass flying like shrapnel from the point of impact.

The din of the bar goes mute. Papyrus stares, wide-eyed, at the line of bones embedding the wall on either side of Grillby’s head. The elemental himself has somehow managed to avoid being soaked in alcohol, which is probably for the best. There’s still a grin on his face but it seems forced. It twitches violently as he glowers at the skeleton next to Papyrus.

Sans’ left eye is blazing red, hand still out from the aftermath of the attack, “You can put _that_ on my tab too, fucker.”

He grips the bags in his hand tighter and turns on his heels. Papyrus follows dumbly after him, taking one last look at the destruction behind them before they leave. Grillby stares back at him, looking for all the world like he wants to dust someone. They exit side-by-side.

They walk in silence back towards the house.

Once they reach the vicinity of the mailbox, Sans stops. Papyrus does too, watches him as he goes through his pockets. After a little searching, he holds out a handful of gold pieces towards him.

“Here.” Sans mumbles.

Papyrus blinks at the offering, “What?”

“Take it,” Sans doesn’t look at him, talks while staring off to the side, “You shouldn’t have to pay for my shit.”

The whole thing rubs Papyrus the wrong way. He shakes his head, “I don’t want it.”

Sans flinches. His hand trembles a bit before he gives a shaky nod. He puts the gold away, looking down at his pocket. As he does so, Papyrus notices for the first time a thin, fresh slash along the side of his face. It looks mostly shallow but still drips red down his pale skull. He must’ve gotten it when he smashed the bottles in the bar.

“Are you okay?” Papyrus asks before he can stop himself.

“Huh?” Sans looks up at him, uncomprehending.

Papyrus gestures towards the side of his own skull and Sans mimics the motion. He winces as his fingers brush the cut. He then drags them back in front of him, leaving a trail of red across his cheekbone. He stares at his hand, “Oh.”

“Here,” Papyrus instinctually moves forward and cups Sans’ face in his hands, bound by the urge to help. He brushes his thumb against the cut, prepares to draw on his magic, “Let me heal—”

Sans is out of his hold faster than Papyrus can blink.

(Almost like he can tele—)

“W-what are you _doing_?” Sans gasps, eyes wild and looking frantically around them as if for signs of danger.

“I-I… I was trying to heal your cut…” Papyrus trails off, not certain if his explanation will make much difference.

Sans gapes at him, “ _Heal_ me…?”

His expression switches from confusion to something unreadable. They stare at each other and Papyrus doesn’t know where he can even _begin_ to explain. Fortunately—if you could call it that—he’s saved from having to say a thing.

Sans turns away from him before he can remember how to speak. He walks stonily up to the front door instead, placing one bag of food on the steps and clutching the other tight. Then, he begins walking once more, this time in the direction of Waterfall. He doesn’t look back.

Papyrus gets the sinking feeling that he’s done something he really shouldn’t have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: how does grillby’s never burn down when the whole place is made of wood and grillby is literally made of fire??  
> also me: ………………… idk man i’m chalking it up to magic


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was asked to add some tags that i skipped over before but, otherwise, same old same old
> 
>  **EDIT** oh, also just wanna mention--the bold in memories is used not only for emphasis like italics would normally be, but also for words/feelings/situations that particularly stand out to papyrus as he experiences them. hopefully that staves off any confusion B')

_Sans hand is **firm** on his shoulder as they walk towards the center of town. He isn’t looking down at Papyrus, but the **pressure** of his hold is enough to keep him feeling **grounded**. It’s also the only thing that’s keeping him from turning around and heading straight home._

_They stop in the usual place._

_“ **Wait**.” Sans says, looking around surreptitiously._

_There’s no one to be seen anywhere near them. Papyrus **hates** it. Maybe if there were, this would be easier. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to say a thing to Sans. Maybe then he’d understand on his own._

_Satisfied, Sans turns to look at him, smiles the way he always does. Papyrus can’t help how his soul seems to **soar** in his chest. He looks away. His brother leans slightly down and wraps his arms around him, pulls him in close. He rests his skull on top of his. Papyrus flushes with **happiness**. _

_It’s not fair how nice this is._

_He always feels so **good** like this. So **warm** in the confines of his brother’s embrace. Like nothing can ever touch him._

_It’s **not fair**._

_Sans presses his teeth against the top of his skull, “Stay **safe**. I’ll come get you in a few hours.”_

_Papyrus nods, even though he knows he’s safest when Sans is holding him. Even though it’s impossible to fulfill his request. He nods and he waves as his brother leaves._

_Scant minutes after Sans has gone, they approach him._

_“Still, Papyrus? Really?” They tease, eyes glinting with an undeniable delight in his misfortune, “We’d have thought you’d have grown up a little by now.”_

_His soul sinks. It was too much to hope they hadn’t seen. He should have known they’d be laying in wait for him._

_“Guess we didn’t a very good job teaching you,” another laughs, “We should probably try again, huh?”_

_He doesn’t respond. Instead, he hangs his head and they all giggle._

_He lets them hit him; kick and punch him. He doesn’t fight back. They know better than to do more damage than he can fix—they also know better than to attack him when his brother is around. They know enough, in fact, that they know Papyrus will **never** **tell** his brother either._

_Because it’s **not worth it**._

_It’s not worth making Sans feel **worse**. It’s not worth losing the little happiness he ever gets to see on his brother’s face. It’s not worth losing something that means so much to the both of them; those few precious moments of **warmth** and **unconditional** **love**. It’s not worth his brother and Papyrus is willing to do what he has to in order to keep the **illusion** that everything is **fine** going._

_That’s why…_

_That’s why, in some ways, Sans finding out the truth is worse than getting his bones broken._

_“Papyrus!” He hears his brother shout and his sockets shoot open in time to see Sans fire off warning shots in the direction of the kids surrounding him. They scream and attempt to run, but Sans sends another few lines of bones, effectively encaging them._

_Sans looks tense._

**_Tense_ ** _and **upset** and **worried**._

_Papyrus is shaking._

_This is **not** what he wanted. He didn’t want Sans to see; **never** wanted him to know. How could this have happened?_

_“What the fuck is going on here?” His brother bites and the kids can do nothing but whimper pathetically._

_It’s **unfair** and Papyrus is **so** angry._

_“Well?!” Sans shouts but none of them respond. A few even start to cry._

_He’s so, so **angry**._

_“Why are you here?”_

_He says it as barely a whisper but his brother hears him anyway, turns to look at him with confusion sprawling over his face, “Pap, what…?”_

_He’s absolutely **furious**._

_“This is all **your** fucking fault.”_

_Sans takes a hesitant step towards him, “Papyrus, I don’t—”_

_He **hates** this._

_“ **You** did this!” he shouts, letting his magic unfurl with a rush and ignoring the hurt that crosses his brother’s face, “If you weren’t so fucking **insistent** on your **stupid** , god damn **hugs** and **kisses** and ridiculous **family** bullshit, this would’ve **never** happened to me! This is **your** fault!”_

_Sans looks crushed, “Pap—”_

_He doesn’t want to see that look on Sans’ face. He doesn’t want to hear anything that he has to say. This is the worst. This is the absolute **worst**. This **isn’t** what he wanted and he’s so fucking **angry**._

_At them. At **himself**._

_But not at Sans— **never** at Sans—or so he insists to himself even as the words come flooding out._

_“You make me look **weak** ,” he spits and his brother’s whole form seems to tremble, “You make me a **target**. You make it **easy** for others to come after me. **You** did this. **You** and **no one else**.”_

_He raises his hand and Sans’ magic **yields** to him, like it always does. Like his brother always makes sure it does. The bones trapping the children go flying up and hurtling towards his brother. The kids immediately run away as fast as they can._

_Sans just barely dodges the attack and Papyrus’s soul clenches because that’s not like him. Sans is faster than that. **Better** than that. **He’s hurting him**. He’s hurting someone he’s **never** wanted to hurt and he still can’t stop because somewhere inside he knows that this is **for the** **best**._

_He stares his brother in the eyes, lets the bones dissipate and snaps his mandibles with a growl, “ **Never touch me again.** ”_

_His words sound final even to his own hearing. And—though Papyrus hasn’t landed a hit, hasn’t struck him at all—Sans looks **defeated**._

_“Okay, Pap,” he whispers, “Okay.”_

_Papyrus feels sick._

_His soul twists at the hollowness in his brother’s voice. He turns around and walks away before the image of Sans looking so lost and forlorn sears too deeply in his mind. Because he should have told him to stop forever ago. Because he shouldn’t have let it ever get to this point. Because he shouldn’t have let his selfishness get the best of him._

_Because he knows this is for the best._

_He’s doing the **right** thing. For **both** of them._

_He has to be._

_And…_

_And, even if he’s regretting this somewhere deep in his soul, then it’s not like he can’t **fix** it. All he has to do is explain it to Sans when he gets home today. Tell him that… he didn’t **mean** it._

_Because the truth is that he needs all of this just as much as Sans does._

_The hugs, the holding, the touches, the **warmth** —he **needs** it._

_But, when the time comes, he can’t get the words out._

_Can’t bring himself to broach the topic when his brother comes to pick him up. Chokes down the words as they step through the front door of their home and Sans smiles at him. Feels the explanation die as Sans **laughs** and **jokes** like not a thing has changed._

_Sans is fine with this so…_

_So, he should be too._

_And if Sans drops him off the next morning and doesn’t hold his hand on the way or bend down to hug him or plaster a skeleton kiss to his cheekbone, that’s fine._

**_It’s fine._ **

_Papyrus won’t ask him to._

Papyrus wakes with a groan, magic pounding in his skull.

He holds a hand to his head and stares up at the unfamiliar ceiling in confusion for a moment before he remembers where he is. He sits up on the couch, sighs when he glances out the window and sees that it’s dark. He fell asleep without meaning to.

He supposes it was inevitable. He hadn’t slept since he’d gotten here after all. And, after eating all that food from Grillby’s, his body felt full and perfectly ready to pass out for a bit.

It wasn’t like he minded all that much, it’s just that the dream he had was—

He stops.

The… dream? _Was_ it a dream? It had seemed more like…

… a memory.

Which was strange because, every memory from his counterpart so far had been short and quick. The images had flashed by and all associated emotions came in bursts. This though… this had played out like a complete scene in his head; none of the soul-shattering speed of the ones he usually experienced. Not to mention that the feelings it evoked were almost tangible. Like he’d been there himself.

“Oh, you’re up.”

Papyrus almost jumps in fright. He forces himself to still and looks to his side. Sans is standing right by kitchen door, looking about as tired as he always does. The image of what he looks like genuinely smiling is still fresh in his mind and he can’t help but compare it to the weak grin on his face right now.

“You were sleeping when I came home from patrol,” Sans continues, posture stiff and uncomfortable, “So, I, uh… I m-made dinner.”

He feels a sudden pang of sadness and pity.

What had _happened_ here?

The memory suggests that this Papyrus and his Sans had been close once. So what changed?

Or… had he simply been mistaken about them the whole time?

Maybe… maybe he’d just been seeing the _bad_ memories. Maybe there were a bunch of _good_ times they’d shared together that he hadn’t had a chance to see yet. Maybe—

“Boss…?” Sans voice is the same as it always seems to be around him. Careful. Scared.

No. He couldn’t be wrong about their relationship.

Not with the way Sans tensed every time Papyrus came near.

Not with the way he’s standing there _now_ , as if every misstep he makes could trigger an explosion.

“I, uh… I made spaghetti.”

Papyrus realises he hasn’t said a thing since Sans started speaking, “Oh.”

“Yeah, I, umm,” Sans looks away from him, “Y-you seemed a little, uh, down? Today? So… uh, s-since you like spaghetti and all…”

“That sounds—” It’s almost physically _painful_ to stop himself from saying ‘good’, “—amenable.”

It’s the right thing to say, apparently. Sans’ face lights up; it’s a mere ghost of the expression he had during the memory but… it’s happy none-the-less. He hurries back into the kitchen, presumably to get the spaghetti. Papyrus stares after him.

He’ll admit that he’s a little thrown off by the way Sans is acting.

After their little… _encounter_ earlier today, he’d been dreading seeing him again. Before falling unconscious on the couch, he’d been rehearsing things to say to him; explanations for behaviour that Sans may have deemed unusual. He hadn’t gotten very far but, in the end, it seemed like he’d been worrying over nothing. Sans was fine.

Well.

 _Relatively_ fine, anyway.

His brother’s twin comes back out, a steaming plate of spaghetti in hand. Papyrus isn’t particularly hungry—he’d fallen asleep right after lunch and he doesn’t typically eat a lot right after waking up anyway—but the sight of spaghetti warms his soul a little. He actually has to catch himself before he ends up smiling.

He likes spaghetti. It reminds him of those special occasions back home where his brother would make it for him. He used to cook it himself but, well, between the growing exhaustion in his soul and his hit-or-miss cooking style… it didn’t always go well. So he’d left the cooking to Sans and acquired a taste for tacos instead.

“Here.” Sans says, holding out the plate towards him.

Papyrus looks up at it, confused. Is… is he supposed to eat on the couch? He glances out the corner of his sockets and, for he first time, he notices that there’s no table in sight.

Well, that answers that question.

He accepts the plate.

He knows enough by now not to thank Sans for it but he can’t just say _nothing_. He glances up at him, and notices that there is no second plate. He feigns disinterest, “You’re not eating?”

Sans blinks at him.

“What? No, we, uh… we didn’t have the ingredients to make a lot so…” He gives a shrug, “Besides, I’m not really all that hungry.”

“Go get another plate.” He’s getting better at this whole _demanding_ thing. Papyrus is almost proud of himself. 

“I—”

Papyrus simply directs a stern look up at Sans and he falls silent. He gives a hesitant nod before moving back into the kitchen. Papyrus feels a little guilty about using the same tactics as his counterpart but holds himself composed as Sans comes out with another plate and fork. He hands them wordlessly to him.

Papyrus deftly moves half the spaghetti onto the second plate and hands it back to Sans, “Here.”

Sans takes it with a mumbled ‘thanks’.

He shifts on the couch to make room for him and Sans only hesitates for a second before sitting down beside him.

They eat in silence. Beside him, Sans picks at his food, shifting the noodles around on his plate. On the other hand, though Papyrus hadn’t been very hungry initially, he finds himself wolfing it down all the same. The spaghetti is actually pretty good. Maybe it’s just because it’s been a while since he’s had it, or maybe it’s actually a cross-universal thing where his brother is a pretty damn decent cook. He’s not sure but, either way, he’s scrapping up another mouthful of noodles when Sans breaks the silence.

“About… a-about earlier today…” Sans starts, laying his fork down on his plate and staring listlessly in front of him.

Papyrus almost chokes on what he’s eating.

 _Fuck_.

Seems like Sans did want to talk about that after all. His mind races as he tries to come up with reasonable excuses for his behaviour.

Sans takes a deep breath, “I-I just wanna say something.”

He realises that Sans is waiting for permission. For a sole instant, he considers ignoring him.

Then, he quickly reconsiders; just the _thought_ of doing something like that makes him feel like the lowest trash, “What is it?”

“I wanna clarify,” Sans grips the plate tight enough that Papyrus can actually _hear_ it crack, “That my tab is clear.”

…………

_What?_

“What?”

Sans turns to look at straight at him and Papyrus is taken aback by the sheer amount of desperation in his gaze, “I don’t go to Grillby’s anymore unless I can immediately afford it. There’s nothing on my tab, I _swear_. It’s been clear for ages.”

Papyrus is at a loss, not in the least because this is probably the most this Sans has ever said to him, “I-I—”

“That’s probably the reason he was so pissy too, really. He’s usually not so—” Sans shakes his head, amends himself, “Well, I mean he’s _always_ an asshole. You know that. But—ugh, whatever, he doesn’t matter.”

Sans takes another moment, seemingly to ground himself. He looks Papyrus dead in his eyes, “Point is; I didn’t fuck him.”

Papyrus wants to leave.

Right now. Immediately.

This is so awkward. This is _really_ fucking awkward. How is he supposed to respond to that?? What is he supposed to _say_?

Despite how he’s ended up stuck here, Papyrus isn’t an idiot. He’d puzzled out pretty quickly that maybe that’s what Grillby had been insinuating earlier at the bar. But, well, he figured that was Sans’ business.

And now, here Sans is, making it _his_ business.

Frankly, he’s also reeling a little over the fact that, apparently, this universe’s Papyrus _has full disclosure on his brother’s sex life_.

(What the fuck? What the _fuck??!_ )

Sans is watching him, waiting for a response. Papyrus tries his best to keep his tone steady and neutral, “That’s… good.”

Sans shoulders slump a little in relief and Papyrus is thankful he didn’t catch the mild horror that is no doubt flooding his expression. His twin’s brother goes back to his meal but Papyrus has completely lost his appetite. Not that there’s much left on his plate to begin with.

He gets up to put it in the sink, half-turns to Sans, “I’m going to my room.”

He makes sure to stare at him for a bit, sockets narrowed, hopefully conveying how much he doesn’t want to be disturbed. Sans just stares right back, fork in his mouth, before giving a slow nod. Papyrus nods back, puts his plate away and makes a beeline for his alternate’s bedroom.

He shuts the door behind him and immediately slumps to the floor with a groan.

He _really_ fucking hates this place. Not for the first time since he got here, he desperately wishes he was back home. Everything in this universe makes his non-existent skin crawl.

But… if he wants to get home, he can’t stop working. He can’t give up.

He sighs heavily and pushes himself off of the floor.

He’s already had a nice, long nap so there’s no reason to go to sleep now, despite how late it is. He can’t go downstairs either, since Sans is probably still there. So. He’ll have to make do with this room again.

He immediately gets to work.

He’s already searched the room twice but there’s no discounting the possibility that he’d overlooked something earlier. Besides, he’s a lot more familiar with the personality of his counterpart now. He’s cautiously optimistic that it’ll help him in his search.

It’s only been a little over ten minutes of him searching when there’s a knock at his bedroom door. He barely manages to stifle a grunt of annoyance. He calms himself down and reminds himself that it’s not Sans’ fault he’s stuck here.

(No. That’s no one’s fault but his own.)

“Come in.” He calls, taking care to add a bluntness to his tone that is suitably intimidating.

Sans opens the door and steps in. Papyrus looks him over from his position by the open closet.

Sans has changed out of the black winter coat and red sweater combo that he’d worn out earlier. Now all that he’s wearing is a long, black shirt that is clearly too big for him length-wise. It falls half-way down his femurs.

It’s odd seeing him in something so devoid of bulk.

“S-sorry, I, uh…” He fidgets by the doorframe, “A-are you coming?”

His gaze snaps back up to Sans’ face. He’s flushing pink, looks embarrassed to have to be asking. Papyrus feels a spark of surprise.

He honestly didn’t think this version of himself was big on telling stories and tucking his brother in at night. It… well, it doesn’t exactly fit the profile he’d built up in his mind about the guy. If he’s being completely truthful, he hadn’t even pinned this _Sans_ as enjoying things like that either. Not that he can blame him—terrible, abusive pricks weren’t picture perfect examples of big brothers after all.

The last line of thought stills him.

Come to think of it… who exactly _was_ the older brother between these two?

He thinks again to the dream-like memory from when he’d woken up. He remembers how it had blown his mind to be the one looking _up_ at his brother for a change. Because, since when had Sans _ever_ been taller than him?

Could it be that this Sans was taller in the memory simply because he was _older_? It makes sense; the Papyrus in that memory _had_ seemed to be just a child…

But then… if Sans _is_ older, why does he allow his brother to treat him so poorly?

“Boss?” Sans questions, voice low and unsure.

He shakes his head. He’ll have time to figure that out later.

Reading is familiar; something he’s used to doing with his own brother. Just the thought of it makes him feel warmer. He finds himself wanting to smile but thinks that would probably freak Sans out more than anything. So he waves his hand dismissively instead, “Yes, of course. Go back to your room and be ready for me.”

There’s a wash of relief that spreads on Sans’ face. He gives a small smile, “Alright, boss.”

Papyrus feels a little stunned. That was probably the most genuine smile he’d seen on Sans’ face since he’d gotten here—barring the dream of course. He thinks on it a little. It’s probably very likely that, in Sans’ eyes, he’d been acting weird all day. Maybe he was relieved that his brother was acting normal again? Happy that they were falling back into safe routines?

It’s… actually pretty reassuring. If this Papyrus still reads his brother to sleep, then maybe their relationship isn’t as messed up as he’s been worrying.

It’s still salvageable.

With more hope in his being than he’d had in quite a while, he heads down the hall towards Sans’ room.

When he enters, Sans is sitting at the edge of his mattress on the floor. He frowns at it with distaste before taking a look around. The room is twice as messy now that he can actually see it with the lights on. Papyrus thinks it might even be messier than his on the worst of days.

As he walks further in, Sans gets up.

The expression on his face is… a little intense. Papyrus isn’t quite sure what to make of that, so he looks away before it makes him too uncomfortable. Instead, he searches around.

Sans watches him quietly for a moment before speaking up, “What are you doing?”

Papyrus glances back at him, “Where’s your bookshelf?”

“My… my what?”

“Your—” He starts, before he notices a small pile of books on the floor by Sans’ feet, “Oh, never mind.”

Papyrus walks in his direction and Sans immediately stiffens. He come to a stop right in front of him, a little curious as to the way Sans flushes a bit when he does so. He then leans down to pick up the books on the floor to the left of him. He hears Sans make a… weird sort of noise. When he comes back up, his gaze flicks back to Sans and he finds him bright red.

That, uh… that’s really weird.

Sans looks a little frustrated, “Boss…”

He wonders if maybe Sans is sick?

“Are you okay?” He asks, remembering how he’d asked that same question earlier today to miserable results but pushing on anyway, “You’re… sweating a lot.”

Sans doesn’t answer him, simply seems tenser. It’s like he’s trembling where he stands and Papyrus finds himself getting even more worried. This Sans isn’t his brother but… he can’t find it in himself to ignore the possibility that he’s feeling unwell. Especially after he hadn’t even let him heal him earlier.

If there was anything Papyrus had learned since arriving here, it was that this universe was unforgiving. So if Sans always let his injuries go untreated then… then illness was not only very likely but also very _deadly_. And there’s just no way he can ignore that.

With that in mind, he reaches a hand out once more and cups the side of Sans’ face with it. In doing so, he’s relieved. Because, this time, it doesn’t make Sans jump away from him in a panic.

This time, Sans leans into the touch.

This time…

This time, Sans _moans_ —

_“Ahnnn, **fuck** ,” Sans is moaning underneath him. “S-shit. Ahh! Boss, **please**!” He chuckles low, brushing his thumb against his brother’s cheekbone while dragging his teeth down his clavicle, “What do you want, dearest brother of mine?” Sans is panting, “ **H-harder** , boss. God, please, f-fuck me harder.” Papyrus feels his soul pound. Sans looks so **good** like this. So good spread out under him, all **flushed** and **needy**. He—_

Papyrus wrenches his hand back, gasping aloud. His mind is a whirl of images and sounds and emotions pushing against him like a heedless tide. He staggers with the force of them, fighting for breath. He very nearly drops to his knees.

The only reason he doesn’t is because Sans catches him, “Fuck, boss, are you alright?!”

Papyrus takes him in; the lingering heat in his gaze, the blush on his face. And it’s only then that it finally registers.

(Oh.

 ** _Oh_**.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “HWat th e f ck” --US!Pap
> 
> okay, raise ur hands and tell me how many of you were screaming at pap when sans came to his door b/c you knew _**exactly**_ how that was gonna end ;3c


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last time, on s&s--
> 
> uf!pap: [start of chapter] never touch me again >:(  
> uf!pap: [end of chapter] lmao jk touch me harder
> 
> also:
> 
> us!pap: aww, I’m gonna read him a bedtime story,,!! uwu  
> [moments later]  
> us!pap: i was,, naïve,,,,, i was,,, A Fool

Sans is staring at him, eyes softened in concern.

Papyrus looks away, can’t hold his gaze for more than a second.

(Oh god, oh god, oh _fuck_ , oh **_god_** —)

He pushes away from Sans as soon as he regains his balance, scrambles backwards. He realises that he’s panting, breathing hard and fast with a hand against his chest. Sans takes a step towards him and he yelps, instinctively withdraws.

(They didn’t even get _along_! Why were they—shit, did they _really_ —?!)

“Boss,” Sans calls out, slow and with an edge to it, “What’s wrong?”

(They couldn’t have—t-they couldn’t! Fuck, god, _what_ —)

“You look like you’re having a fuckin’ panic attack.” Sans frowns at him, and the expression reminds him so much of his own brother that Papyrus feels infinitely worse.

“I-I…” He attempts to respond, winces when his voice comes out strangled and ragged.

“Boss… what the hell is going on?”

He can’t take this, “I have to go.”

“ _’Go’_? Where are you—”

He doesn’t stick around to hear the question, turns on his heels and strides towards the door. His soul is banging against his ribs and his mind is still reeling and he can’t—he _can’t_ —do this. Pretending to yell, or be rude, or be angry and violent is one thing… but _this_? This is something else _entirely_.

Papyrus stiffly walks out of the room. He hears Sans shout after him but he doesn’t pause. He walks down the hall and right past his alternate’s door. He keeps his head carefully blank as he makes his way down the stairs, doesn’t want to trigger any more awful memories. He’s not sure where he’s going but he knows that it has to be away from here.

Away from this house, away from this Sans, away from this whole messed up—

“Tell me what’s going on, boss.”

Papyrus very nearly falls back onto the steps when Sans’ face blips right into his line of sight. It says a lot about his state of mind that he missed Sans presumably coming right up behind him.  He holds tight onto the bannister for support, blinking rapidly as Sans watches him. His eyes are discerning and Papyrus feels himself shiver under their search.

He fixes his face into his best frown, “I don’t have to tell you any—”

Sans cuts him off, both verbally _and_ from physically progressing down the stairs, “ _What’s going on_.”

It’s difficult because he… he almost wants to. It would certainly make things a little more bearable if he could just act like _himself_. And if things worked out well, maybe Sans could even help him. But, as he stares at the hard eyes of his brother’s twin and thinks on the sort of place this universe is, he rejects the idea.

After all, who knew if he could even trust this Sans. It wouldn’t exactly _surprise_ him if he ended up being betrayed by him.

That was just the type of behaviour he’d come to expect from this place.

“Get the hell out of my way.” Papyrus pushes roughly past him, continues down the stairs.

He’s just barely reached the bottom step when a bitter laugh reaches him. It sounds broken and horrible and Papyrus can feel his soul clench just from the thought of the look that must be on Sans’ face. When Sans speaks, there’s a forced amusement in his tone that cuts right through him.

“I just don’t get it!”

Papyrus doesn’t turn, but he finds himself stopped and hesitating at the bottom of the stairs.

“You won’t hit me but you won’t fuck me _either_!”

The words make him flinch.

It’s wasn’t like he didn’t see it himself but… some part of him had still been hoping that the memories weren’t always true to life. Like they were some conjured, imaginary scenarios instead. Not just in this case, but for _a lot_ of the terrible things he had seen.

It was obvious to him now that this wasn’t the case.

“What did I _do_?” Sans is starting to sound a little hysterical, “I can’t _fix_ it if I don’t know what I did wrong, boss!”

The desperation in his voice makes Papyrus’s grip on the banister tighten further.

He keeps telling himself not to get involved. He keeps telling himself to just _ignore_ everything—to ignore this weird, all-wrong version of his brother—but it’s _unbearable_. He can’t. He can’t do that when all he can think of his own brother suffering in the same way and hurting when Papyrus only shuns him in response.

So he turns around, faces Sans and forces himself to speak, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Red-lit eyelights stare back at him, making him feel even more on edge.

“It’s fine, Sans. Everything’s…” he takes a second to steady himself, even though it does nothing to help calm the shaky panic in his soul, “Everything’s fine.”

“Seriously…?” Sans does not at all look reassured, looks more incredulous than anything else, “What the fuck is the point in _lying_? Why can’t you just fucking _tell_ me?!”

Papyrus bristles at his tone.

“Even if there _was_ something wrong, what in the hell makes you think you can fix it by sleeping with me?!” The words are out of his mouth before he can rethink them, the stress of the situation snapping them out, “What gave you the fucking impression that I would want _that_ in exchange?!”

Sans watches him, face surprisingly stern, “What gave me that impression?”

A cold feeling spreads through his bones and a surge of magic rushes through his body, encasing his soul. A heavy weight presses down on him and Papyrus realises that he can no longer move. He recognises the feeling immediately.

His soul is being coloured and held.

“You kept asking me ‘ _concerned_ ’ shit!”

Sans bites at him and raises a hand, dragging Papyrus up. He gasps as he’s lifted, the motion jarring and rough. His brother’s twin glares at him, heated gaze burning in sharp contrast to the cold of the magic enveloping him.

“Kept _touching_ me in public!”

He flicks his left hand, flinging Papyrus in the direction of the couch. He lands gracelessly, limbs falling to his sides. The hold on his soul is gone but he still can’t move, the acidic look on Sans’ face rooting him in place.

“What the hell was I _supposed_ to think you wanted?!”

He’s frozen stiff as Sans stomps over to him, grabs him by the front of his scarf. He’s clearly searching for something in his gaze but Papyrus knows for a fact that, whatever it is, he won’t find it. He has nothing to offer this version of his brother; no words, no answers to speak of.

Sans waits briefly for a response, growls when he sees that nothing is forthcoming. His grip in the scarf constricts and Papyrus braces himself for some sort of physical retribution. It comes in the form of Sans surging forward, crushing the front of his skull against his.

Papyrus winces in preparation for pain but there’s no aching to follow the collision. Instead, something wet brushes against his teeth and he gives an involuntary shudder. He realises he’s squeezed his sockets closed. He warily blinks them open to find himself with a lapful of Sans and a conjured tongue swiping across his mouth.

His soul stutters in his chest.

“No,” he gasps, manages to get his head clear enough to bring his hands up in between them, “No, no, no, no—”

Sans has his arms laced around him, holding on tight. Papyrus moves to push at his chest but Sans’ tongue shifts away from his mouth to trail along his jaw and he startles still. He moves again, this time towards his neck, leaving sticky residue in its wake. Papyrus shudders as the air cools the wet against his bones.

“F-fuck…” he manages to breathe out, horrified with the strange mixture of disgust and arousal that creeps up on him, “Sans, _stop_.”

“Hmm? What was that, boss?” There’s something like victory in his tone as he moves even closer, grinding his hips down and holding on tighter. He bares his teeth, grazing them against his vertebrae.

Papyrus inhales sharply, his fingers twitching as he tries to push firmly against Sans’ chest, “ _Sans_.”

“What?” He hums, distracted.

He finally manages to put enough force in his hands to strip Sans away from his neck. His face burns as he steadies his voice and speaks, “I mean it. _Stop_.”

Sans pulls back, looks up at him as if seeing him for the first time, “You… want me to what?”

“Stop,” Papyrus tries to keep his tone gentle and un-accusing, “I don’t want this.”

He doesn’t know what sort of reaction he’s expecting, but it’s certainly not the one he gets—Sans’ gaze hardens like stone, his jaw clenching. He gets off of Papyrus with motions brisk and tense with anger. His phalanges curl and uncurl at his sides as he stands in front of him, the stirrings of magic wisping around his left eye.

“Fine,” he grits, “Fuckin’ _fine_ then.”

Sans turns around, moves rigidly towards the front door. He pulls on his shoes and grabs at the handle while Papyrus only just registers that he plans on leaving.

He must still be a little dazed because, the first thought that springs to his head is that Sans really shouldn’t be going out without his jacket. If he was planning to be out for a while, he should probably make the effort to go get it first. He almost suggests that Sans do exactly that before he catches himself with a start and remembers what sort of situation he’s in.

A comment in that vein probably wouldn’t go over well at this point.

(Besides, it’s not like his _actual_ brother would’ve reminded him anyway, right?)

(Would’ve…

… would’ve probably just fucked him instead.)

He shakes away the thoughts, “Where are you going?”

“Out.” Sans says, short and clipped.

He doesn’t know where to begin to explain but he can’t help thinking that he should at least try, “Sans—”

“I’d say ‘don’t worry’ but,” Sans shrugs as if that explains everything. He smiles sharply as a follow-up, “Hey, who knows? Maybe I’ll finally get dusted and you can rest easy.”

He slams the door on his way out.

His words leave Papyrus with a sinking sort of feeling inside him.

It strikes him suddenly that he really doesn’t know this Sans at all. Doesn’t know anything about him but the baseline comparisons that he can make to his own brother, and the fragmented memories of someone who holds himself superior to him in every regard.

When he thinks of how ominous Sans’ parting words are, he unsure of how to react. With his own brother, an angry comment is just spur of the moment—hardly means anything in the grand scheme of things. But… with _this_ Sans, it almost sounds like a warning. A promise that if there’s danger to be found, Sans will be right in the middle of it.

He’s…

… worried.

Would Sans really go seeking out trouble?

He remains where he sits. Considers.

He wonders briefly if he should just forget all this and go to bed or, better yet, search the house more thoroughly now that Sans is gone.

He fidgets.

… he’s still worried.

Normally—if there was such a thing as normal in a situation like this—he’d trust this Sans to know what he’s doing; it is _his_ universe after all. But all Papyrus knows is what his own brother is like when he’s upset; how stubborn he is and how reckless he can get. And he knows he’s only fooling himself if he thinks he’ll be able to do anything constructive when Sans could be out there getting hurt.

He thinks.

If there’s a precedent for this sort of thing, there’s got to be a memory related to it, right? Maybe he can reassure himself with a glance through his counterpart’s memories… no matter _how_ queasy they tend to make him. The memories are something he’s going to need a handle on eventually, anyway.

(His whole plan to return home hinges on it.)

He takes a breath; focuses on what he wants to know.

It takes a while but, surprisingly enough, when the memory comes, it comes easily. There’s no spark of pain, no pushing, no internal assault. Just a gentle stream of thought coming through to him. He wonders if it’s because he knew what to expect by now; knew exactly what it would feel like to let it through.

The images play, and

there’s dust _everywhere_.

_“Sorry, boss. I’m sor—” Papyrus digs his claws into Sans’ sides, “Shut up. Just **shut up** , you fucking idiot.” **This** is why Sans couldn’t be trusted to do anything. **This** what made him so fucking **angry** with his **worthless** heap of a sibling. He told him, he fucking **told him**! And **still** Sans couldn’t be bothered to just **listen** — “B-boss.” Papyrus snarls at him, “ **What** did I say about speaking?” Sans winces, “S-sorry, boss. It’s just that…” That look on his face is **despicable** , “Y-you’re hurting me.” Papyrus stills, realises his claws are digging into the cuts already littered across his bones. He lets go and Sans instantly breathes a little easier. “Thank you.” He sighs and Papyrus would fucking **hit him** if it wasn’t for how dangerously close to **falling** he was already. Instead, he takes vicious pleasure in tying his bandages extra tight, “Next time I tell you to stay inside, **listen to me.** Don’t pretend like you know anything when you obviously don’t.” “Alright, boss,” The obvious **disinterest** in Sans’ tone makes him tense, “Whatever you say.”_

“Fuck.”

Another artifact of having the memories is that Papyrus becomes intimately familiar with the feelings of his alternate half. Any strong emotions he feels are laced throughout his experiences and Papyrus feels them resonate in his soul as he watches. So, this time… this time, when the heavy weight of _fear_ is tangled throughout the flashes of the past, Papyrus is immediately on his feet.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Because Sans has gotten hurt before.

“ _Shit_.”

Because last time, especially, was different from the others.

“God fucking _damn it_.”

Because last time, his alternate self thought Sans might have done it on _purpose_.

The thought is enough to push him out the door in an instant, soul pulsing frantically. It’s only been a handful of minutes since Sans left but there’s no one in sight as Papyrus looks wildly around. The snow is cold against his bones but his soul feels colder still.

“Sans!”

(He should have just tried to explain himself when he had the chance.)

“Sans, where are you?!”

There’s nothing to answer him but the sounds of his footsteps as he races towards town center. He’s feeling a sudden growing anger with himself. For trying to pretend, for lying, for not just straight up telling Sans the truth. Not one decision he’s made since getting here has been the right one.

(And now, if Sans gets hurt, that’ll be on _his_ head. _His_ fault.)

As he runs, there’s a flash of red light that catches his eye in the distance. His soul jumps in his chest at the sight of it. He runs faster, pressing on towards Snowdin Forest. As he nears, he can see more red flashes and can just barely make out the grating of angry shouting. The smell of magic burns through the crisp night air.

Sans is fighting someone.

He pushes himself faster still.

He doesn’t want to think of what he’ll find if he gets there too late. He’s had too many nightmares about his _own_ Sans to know he can’t handle seeing what’s left, even if he understands that this isn’t quite his brother. Besides that, there’s no denying that he still feels the same as he did the first night he got here—Sans is Sans. And if he’s hurting, it’s his job to fix it.

(It’s a fucking disgrace that he tried to suppress that instinct till now.)

As he races into the clearing, panting and panicked, the scene before him stops him from immediately announcing his presence.

Sans has his opponent pinned to the ground, a semi-circle of red bones hovering just above them. It looks like he’s struggling to keep him down but Papyrus is afraid to run in and startle him out of concentration. He’s anxious but holds himself back, watching as Sans lets his attack rain down from above, piercing the monster beneath him.

There’s a howl of pain that his brother’s twin seems to smirk at. He calls up another round of bones, all jagged and sharp, and lines himself up for another attack. They only just begin their decent when the monster pushes at him with what seems like a sudden burst of strength, knocking him immediately off balance. The bone constructs wisp away.

Sans yelps as he’s thrown backwards, tries to scramble to his feet only to be pinned down in turn. The monster clambers on top of him and Sans struggles, sweat breaking out over him. There’s the sound of a crack followed by a hiss of pain as the monster snaps a phalange back in on itself.

Papyrus rushes forward.

“Sans!” He shouts and lets his magic roar to life. His right hand raises and he prepares to release an immediate barrage of bones in the direction of the attacker. The rush of warmth his magic brings with it surrounds him, sparking against his bones like an electric current.

It’s only as his hand is coming down that he realises he hasn’t brought up his usual bone attack at all.

Instead, as he casts an eye to his side, he sees a giant skull floating just above his shoulder. It’s maw gapes open, a beam of bright, raw magic gathering inside it for release. His eyes go wide. How in the hell did a blaster flicker into existence? That’s not what he’d been going for at—

The beam releases.

Papyrus watches in horror as it heads directly for its target, sure to dust anyone or anything that falls in its path. His soul constricts—this isn’t what he wanted. There was a huge difference between knocking someone around with a few bones and blasting them to hell with pure magic.  

Papyrus was many things, but a murderer was not one of them.

He grits his teeth and digs his boots into the ground. With a swinging of his arms, he tries his best to wrench the blaster’s direction off-kilter. He heaves with all his strength, body aching as the blaster only just barely moves an inch.

But it’s enough.

Through his effort, the beam only just grazes the assailant, firing off into the tress instead, leaving a scorching trail of disintegrated foliage. However, the grazing seems to have done enough damage on its own. The monster screams where it lies on the snowy forest floor, arm completely dusted.  

Papyrus forces his gaze away from the awful display and looks towards Sans instead. Relief courses through him when he sees that he’s safely off to the side. He looks a little shocked to see him there but otherwise alright.

He casts the blaster away with a wave, makes to run over to Sans’ side.

He barely manages to put one foot forward when a sickening stab of pain pierces through him.

The world seems to tilt in front of him.

He blinks rapidly as his vision blurs, hand coming up to clench at his chest. A heaviness envelopes him, pushes down on his entire body. Papyrus staggers.

This isn’t like earlier, when Sans had ensnared his soul—that was a familiar, if somewhat uncomfortable, sort of binding. This is _strangling_ in comparison, unrelenting in its hold. Papyrus finds himself struggling just to breathe even as the magic forces him to his knees and keeps him there. His head bows, the strain of keeping it up too much too bear. The force stills him completely, leaves him entirely unable to move.

It’s as if the magic is been drained clean out of him.

He hears the snow crunch, “Fuckin’ hell, you can’t even dust someone properly.”

There’s another flash of red light but the magic keeps Papyrus bound and he’s unable to lift his head and see. It’s not difficult to piece together what happens, though. It’s not like it takes much to guess what’s gone wrong when the prolonged screaming of a monster abruptly goes silent.

“Alright.” Comes Sans’ voice, light and unaffected, as if he hasn’t just killed someone. Papyrus feels a chill cut deep into him as he considers just _how much_ he doesn’t know about this Sans.

The mass of magic keeps his gaze down, makes it so that he only knows that Sans is close when the gaudy, bright colours of his shoes step into his line of sight.

“Not exactly how I planned it but,” Sans crouches down, pulls Papyrus’s head up by his chin so that he can look him in the eyes, “This works too.”

Sans smiles at him, wide and intimidating. Papyrus would shiver if he could, the vicious glee on his face making his very being shudder in apprehension. The scraps of light in the forest seem to gather enough to glint off his pointed, gold canine, “Hey there, asshole.”

The burning smell of magic assaults him once more as a single, sharpened bone construct aligns itself right by his neck, full of promise.

“Mind telling me where my brother is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shouldn’t have eaten that spaghetti pap smh ;'D
> 
> OH ALSO!! Just wanna say that if there's anything you guys wanna see happen in this fic, feel free to suggest it in the comments--I gotta get some filler in between the big plot points and what better way to do that than by putting in some requests B')
> 
> ALSO ALSO!!! I'm gonna be on a trip till Monday so there's gonna be a whole bunch of silence from my end till then! Just a heads up!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off--I got super hecking nice fanart????? Like, wow, I'm crying, it's really good?? If you haven't seen it yet, here's a link to [Jesuka's art of a scene from last chapter](http://jesuka-arts.tumblr.com/post/143335689489/i-um-made-a-thing-for-0netype-warning-theyre-a). Thank you so much! <3333
> 
> Other than that, no real news other than I guess that you might see this fic teeter and totter between the M and E ratings?? Don't worry about it if it happens. There's no changes plot wise--it's really just me being confused about what sort of smut makes it so the rating has to be pushed higher. I might just be safe and stick an E on it but............ hhhhhhh i don't know. ~~If ur familiar with ratings, hmu and give me your thoughts cuz, honestly, i'm fking lost here~~

Papyrus thinks that this might be one of those moments where his life is supposed to flash before his eyes.

In reality though, all he can picture is the days leading up to his arrival in this universe. How he spent hours upon hours in the lab trying to fix the machine and get it running. How he would come back home late into the night and find a covered plate of tacos waiting for him along with a stern note from his brother that reminded him not to slack off and to remember to eat. He would do exactly that, pocketing the note with a smile and a rush of warm affection for his sibling.

If there’s one thing he feels in this moment, it’s intense regret—he should’ve never fucked around with the machine in the first place.

(He’d left his brother behind. Left him without so much as a word.

He must be so worried—)

The point of the conjured bone by his neck presses in slightly, making him hiss.

“It’d be in your best interest to hurry up,” Sans growls, “I haven’t got all fuckin’ night.”

Papyrus struggles against the restrictive magic still holding him in place, body forced tense. With an uneasy shudder, he’s reminded of Undyne’s soul hold. Her magic had been much the same, rooting the castee in place.

She’d shown him once, ages ago, when they’d still been working side-by-side. He’d pressed her relentlessly, against all her shying away, and she’d cast it on him. It had stilled him at once, forced him to meet her attacks head on. Neither of them were much for fighting but he remembers breaking out into a sweat trying to keep up with her.

It had been almost overwhelming.

Much like this is right now.

He feels his soul sink at the thought of this universe’s Undyne popping out from behind the trees.

What would she be like? Would she use him like some sort of sick experimental subject? Would she force him to fight her so she could run her tests?

(Oh god, she was his **_friend_**. He didn’t know if he _could_ fight anyone bearing such a familiar face.)

He forces his trailing thoughts away, tries to focus on the differences between the magic despite their similarities. For one, there’s no leeway here; no room to move at all. For another, he can’t seem to call up his magic either. Unlike his Undyne’s magic, this left him utterly defenseless and at the mercy of its user, completely bound in place with no way to counterattack. He’s having trouble keeping his head up, much less raising his arms up to block any sort of attack.

And, surely, if Sans _had_ teamed up with some harrowed version of Undyne, she’d have used her magic earlier in order to incapacitate his opponent, right? Or, at the very least, she would have shown herself by now.

So maybe that means this magic has nothing to do with Undyne at all. And maybe he won’t have to hurt someone he calls a friend.

Somehow, the thought makes him breathe a little easier.

(But that still leaves Sans.)

“Hey,” the monster in question snaps his phalanges with a flicker of red magic inches from his face, “You paying attention or what?”

The magic still heaves down on him like an overbearing weight but Papyrus manages to shakily nod his head.

“Then start talking.”

(Well. It’s now or never.)

“Listen. Sans. It’s…” There’s too much to say. He’s not sure he can summarise everything in just a few short sentences. He realises has no idea where to start, “It’s… honestly a little complicated to explain.”

The construct shifts forward again, presses in far enough to draw blood. Papyrus clenches his teeth against the pain. He wonders wildly for a second how much pressure it would take to slice right through.

Sans watches him, annoyance clear in his sharp, cold gaze, “Keep it short and simple then. _Where_ is my _brother_?”

Papyrus takes a breath, weighs his options. And, well…

He’s got to start _somewhere_ , right?

“I _am_ your brother.”

Sans blinks at him and Papyrus’s soul pounds in anxiety. Sans’ expression is hard to read, eye-lights flickering for a moment as he considers what he’s has said. Then; a low, rumbling laugh, “Nice try, bud.”

Papyrus scrambles to explain, “I know how it sounds but—”

“I’ve known you weren’t my brother since the start.”

“What?” Papyrus startles, thoughts racing off track. That… comes as somewhat of a surprise. Sans certainly hadn’t let on anything of the sort, “Since when?”

Sans tilts his head at him, indifferent, “Probably the morning after my nightmare.”

He blanches.

If that’s true, then that means Sans really _had_ known right since the start. And _that_ means that he had probably seen through every one of Papyrus’s attempts to act like his brother. He flusters at the thought, imagines what a fool he must have looked like through Sans’s eyes.

He can feel his face start to grow a little hot, “But then why would you still try to sleep with me?!”

“Easiest way to get you to use your magic,” Sans shrugs, “Though you were a lot more resistant than I expected.”

“You wanted me to use my magic?” He’s beyond embarrassed, but that does nothing to dampen that spark of curiosity brought on by Sans’ words, “What for—?”

He yelps out in pain as the sharp point at his neck digs deeper. With a crimson flash, a second filed bone joins the first in hovering by his vertebrae. He tries to still his frantic soul, keeps silent even though a mountain of questions grows in him.

Sans sighs loudly, irritation clear, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“W-what?”

“Don’t you understand what kind of position you’re in?” He punctuates his words with another jab at his neck, though this time it is light and fleeting, “And yet, _somehow_ , instead of answering my question you’re trying have a fucking _conversation_!”

Papyrus flushes, internally berates himself.

(Right. Of course.

It’s probably best to explain himself first.

His own questions can come later.)

(… if Sans hasn’t dusted him by then.)

He gives Sans his most earnest expression, tries to convey through his limited body language that he’s being sincere and honest, “What I told you is the truth. I _am_ your brother. In… more than one way, actually.”

Sans is unimpressed, “Is that really what you’re sticking with?”

“Yes. I know it might not make much sense right now, but I—”

“Listen. This is your last fucking chance, pal,” The lights in Sans’ eyes blacken out and Papyrus feels a chill settle in his spine at the sight, “Just tell me what I want to know and maybe I’ll consider leaving you for someone else to dust.”

“I _am_ telling you!” Papyrus insists. He doesn’t know how he can make it any plainer if Sans won’t let him _speak_ long enough to give any details. All he needs is for him to just _hear him out_ , “Sans, if you let me explain—”

Sans gets up, looks bored and uninterested in anything else he might have to say, “Right, well, I guess there’s no point in keeping you alive then.”

And, like a switch has been flipped, Papyrus

gets angry.

There’s a surge inside of him, like fire burning a path straight through his core. It licks against his ribs and flares up his spine, traveling up and up till it reaches the base of his skull. It stays there a moment, gathers its heat till it feels almost liquid in its intensity. Then, it explodes over his body in waves.

“ _Will you just—_ ”

The weight of the magic holding him down dissipates.

“ _—fucking **listen** to me?!_ ”

Papyrus yells at he stands, inching up to full height with none of his usual slump. He stares down at his brother’s twin, watches as he falls onto his back with an alarmed cry. Sans seems frozen on the cold snow as he looks back up at the towering monster in front of him.

“H-how are you moving? That shouldn’t—I-I was sure I used enough to—”

And Papyrus feels powerful, feels _exhilarated_. Feels like he has a boundless amount of energy at his disposal just _begging_ to be used. It’s familiar in the basest of ways and his bones itch with the urge to _do something_.

But not here, he reminds himself, and _certainly_ not against Sans. Because, despite everything, there’s that deep-seated need inside him to protect and to be kind. And, although he doesn’t know exactly what’s happening, he knows he’s been given a chance.

So he’s going to use it.

Papyrus cuts him off, “You wanna know where your brother is, right?”

Sans flinches when Papyrus speaks, shrinks down as if expecting an attack. When nothing comes, he stares up at him, eye sockets wide in a way that would be comical in any other situation. After a moment’s hesitation, he nods.

He nods back, “Then you’ll need to trust me when I tell you that, as complicated as this is, what I’m telling you the truth.”

Sans laughs again, though this time it comes out nervous and shaky, “ _Trust_ you? That’s a pretty tall order coming from someone who lied to my face and tried to take my brother’s place.”

“I wasn’t trying to take his place!”

His brother’s copy scoffs, eyes him disdainfully even as his voice trembles, “Y-yeah, uh, no offense, dude? But you should _know_ that trust doesn’t come easily around these parts. Y-you’re gonna have to try a little harder than that.”

“Funny,” He snaps, the anger still coursing freely through his bones, “That’s pretty big talk coming from a murderer.”

Because, how dare he?

(How _dare_ he?!)

Because Papyrus _has_ been trying.

But this _isn’t_ his universe and this _isn’t_ his brother and he has _no idea how things work_ _here_. So, he keeps _trying_ and he keeps _fucking up_ and it’s **_frustrating_** when all he wants to do is get back _home_. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt more fucking helpless in his life.

And then there’s Sans. Sitting there, judging him for fucking ‘ _lying’_. Holding some weird, fucked up, _moral superiority_ over him like he hasn’t just _dusted_ a monster _right before his eyes_.

“A what?” Sans frowns at him, momentarily surprised right out of his fear.

Papyrus bristles, “You heard me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You—” But the honest confusion in his tone makes Papyrus glance briefly up, just past where Sans in laying in front of him.

And, just that like, his anger begins to ebb.

What he expects to see is a pile of dust.

What greets him instead is the sight of an unconscious monster, bound by crimson tendrils of magic. Unharmed, save for the missing arm that hadn’t been Sans’s doing at all. He’s restrained and knocked out but definitely still alive.

Sans hadn’t killed him at all—Papyrus had just assumed he had.

He’s… not sure how to feel about that. He’d clearly misjudged his brother’s twin yet again.

(It seems like that’s _all_ he’s capable of doing when it comes to Sans.)

He slouches, whether from shock or relief, he can’t really say, “You didn’t kill him.”

The fire within him dims a little further.

Sans just looks bewildered, “I… didn’t need to? Why put in all that effort when that wound pretty much assures he’ll be dead by morning?”

“You’re not gonna help him?”

“‘ _Help_ him?’” Sans is incredulous, “You want me to _help_ the guy that _attacked_ me?”

Papyrus flushes, “R-right. I… Of course not.”

There’s a lengthy pause. They’ve lost track of their initial conversation, leaving silence to fill awkwardly between them instead. Papyrus can feel Sans eyes on him and it makes him twitch uncomfortably.

But—

Sans is listening to what he has to say.

(He should say something.

 _Anything_.)

“I’m, uh… I’m glad you’re okay.”

Again, there is laughter. Papyrus is starting to think that maybe it’s less a response to something funny and more like Sans’ go-to-action when he doesn’t know how to react.

“What the fuck?” Sans is still on the ground but he’s leaning up now, looks a little less intimidated by him, “Why would _you_ care?”

He shrugs, doesn’t know how to respond to that in a way that’s simple enough to immediately get across.

(‘Because you’re my brother.’ probably wouldn’t go over well.

It’s not even the entire truth anyway.)

Sans pushes himself up by the elbows, shifts around till he’s sitting on his knees looking up at him, “I’m not that easy to kill.”

“It’s less that and more…” He hesitates, gives Sans a helpless sort of smile, “More that I was afraid you were trying to get hurt on purpose.”

He doesn’t miss the way Sans startles at that; the way a look of old guilt and regret flash through his eyes before he smooths them away like nothing, “What? How—”

Sans stops. Takes a breath.

Papyrus doesn’t say a word. Can only watch as conflicting emotions war across his face.

He’s not angry anymore. He knows _can’t_ be; not at someone who so clearly sees too much of the outcomes of anger in a world as unforgiving as this.

(Besides, he was more of a live and let live sort of guy anyways.)

“I wasn’t.” Sans says firmly.

“What did you come out here to do if not start a fight?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.” He clips out, hostile and unwelcoming. But Papyrus sees the quick flick of his eyes just beyond the line of trees behind them. He follows that look, recognises in an instant that it leads to the ruins.

Or at least it did back in the universe that he was from.

He wonders if Sans knows about the man behind the door. If maybe that’s where he’d been going.

Before he can ask, Sans questions him instead, “Is _that_ why you came out here? Because you were _worried_ about me?”

His tone is skeptical, wary in a way that makes Papyrus’s soul clench like it always does when this version of his brother is shocked by simple kindness. He doesn’t like hearing him sound like that.

Because he _is_ worried about Sans. Worried about what a place like this has done to someone that he’s always known to be kind above all else. And, as much as Papyrus wants to get home, he wants to help here too; he wants to help _Sans_.

(He can’t just leave him suffering like this—what kind of brother would he be if he did?)

He opens his mouth to speak.

Instead, he gasps.

He breathes in sharply as the fire that had filled him only moments ago extinguishes. He’s left ice cold and empty, the suddenness of it a shock to his system. He has no time to recover from the loss before the absence of whatever magic that had empowered him puts him once again at the mercy of the binds that had been cast before. He staggers and tilts forward, only just barely managing to catch his footing and stay upright.

“Whoa, hey, what happened?!” Sans asks, with something in his voice that—if he didn’t know any better—Papyrus would call concern.

He can’t answer. It’s taking up all his effort to just stay standing.

He has the sinking feeling that he’s lost his chance; Sans will never listen to him now.

With another pulse of restrictive magic shooting through him, Papyrus falls.

Papyrus falls

and

Sans catches him.

To say he’s shocked would be an understatement. He manages to crane his neck around enough to look at Sans’ face. His expression tells him that Sans is just as surprised as he is.

“Uhh,” Sans speaks while lowering him— _gently_ —to the ground, “Looks like you’re, uhh… you’re bound again, huh?”

Papyrus stares at him, “You caught me.”

“Well, I mean, you didn’t immediately try to dust me when you got free so…” Sans doesn’t elaborate, his cheekbones going the slightest shade of red. Papyrus is glad to see it—he was starting to think he was the only monster in this whole damn universe that ever got embarrassed, “You gonna explain now or what?”

His soul leaps at the suggestion, “You’re seriously willing to hear me out?”

Sans shrugs, “You’ve got my attention.”

Sans is tired; that much is obvious. There’s a slump to his shoulders and a cast to his eyes that is unmistakeable as anything but total fatigue with the situation. At this point, he just wants answers. He doesn’t care how he gets them.

“Okay,” Papyrus nods, eager to finally make some progress, “Okay, so, do you… do you wanna sit down or something? This could get a little long and—”

“Actually,” Sans yawns and stretches, the bottom of his shirt hiking so far up his femurs that Papyrus has to avert his gaze, “Why don’t we head back home first?”

Papyrus frowns, “I, uh… can’t exactly _move_ right now, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Sans waves him off, completely unconcerned, “It’s only temporary. Should wear off in a couple of hours.”

So it _does_ have something to do with Sans after all. Papyrus had figured as much but the knowledge still makes him feel weird. How had he missed so much happening right in front of him?

He gives Sans a look, “So… what? You just want to wait here till then?”

“No,” And, for the first time since he’d broken free of the magic holding him down, Sans approaches him. He puts a hand on his shoulder, smiles in a way that is vaguely menacing, “Like I said, we’re going home.”

“Uh, I don’t mean to doubt you but… you don’t exactly look like you’d be able to carry me back on your own.”

“Who said anything about carrying you?” Sans winks at him, and nothing could have ever prepared Papyrus for what he says next, “I know a shortcut.”

Papyrus’s soul pounds, “A shortc—”

The familiar twist through space still manages to jostle him when he’s not prepared. It’s even worse since he’s not actually the one doing the teleporting. It’s disorienting and strange travelling tagged along with someone else and Papyrus feels a wave of sympathy for the unfortunate souls he’s pulled along this way.

With a snap, they’re standing in the living room. Papyrus feels a rush of nausea, finds himself grateful that he’s sitting because standing up would’ve meant falling flat on his face with how dizzy he feels right now. Sans immediately steps away from him.

“Welcome home.” He grins and Papyrus stops short at the familiar delighted glint in his eye.

Because it’s not familiar in the way that he’s seen it on his own brother. Instead, it’s familiar in that he’s seen that expression mirrored back from his own face countless times.

In that second, Papyrus considers that maybe he’s been looking for answers in the wrong memories this whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i am going to explain everything this chapter!  
> me: [writes over 3000 words of pap and sans arguing back and forth]  
> me: .................................. n-next chapter...


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More amazing fanart!!!!! B'D
> 
> Anartiststale drew some really lovely tradition art that made with weep thankfully which you can see [here](http://anartiststale.tumblr.com/post/144141164972/mind-telling-me-where-my-brother-is-for) and [here](http://anartiststale.tumblr.com/post/144487041487/whos-there-he-gasps-voice-choked-and-rough)!
> 
> And Bowtie drew an amaaaaaazing piece (with the cutest Sans in the world what the heck??!!!!) that you can find [here](http://undersweater.tumblr.com/post/143845474592/fanart-for-0netype-s-amazing-fic-sticks)!
> 
> Thank you both so so so _**so**_ much!!!!! I'm so honoured to receive such amazing art for my silly little fic aaaahhhhhhhhh  <33
> 
> also you may have noticed that I changed the fic rating to E,, just a heads up that that has nothing to do with this chapter in particular,,,,! it's just a general change for later B'))

Papyrus is still trying to reorient himself when Sans pings his soul blue and flings him over to the couch for the second time in as many hours. He lands, once again, in a messy tangle of limbs, unable to catch himself thanks to the bindings still present over his body. He watches Sans quietly as he grumbles and heads upstairs, hears the door to a bedroom creak open and then slam close.

Seconds later, Sans blips back into view right in front of him; his heavy, black coat has been returned to its place over his shoulders, filling him out considerably. He moves forward and adjusts Papyrus until he’s sitting on the couch, feet planted on the ground. Then, he rearranges his arms and ties them behind his back. Papyrus thinks the ties are extraneous considering the state he’s in but, then again, it’s not like he’s in any position to argue.

(And, really, if it makes Sans feel safer, who is he to complain?)

“How did you do that?” Papyrus asks, still thinking on his latest discovery.

He just can’t understand _why_ Sans would be able to teleport. Is it something that both the brothers are capable of in this universe? Or does this mean that it was something _his_ brother could do as well and just never attempted?

Somehow, neither of those options sit quite right with him.

“Not important.” Sans shrugs, unconcerned.

“Wait… did you ‘port us back just so you could get your _coat_?”

“Hmm,” Sans grunts, noncommittal, “I was a fuckin’ idiot for forgetting it in the first place.”

He remembers the inexplicable need he’d had earlier to tell Sans not to forget his jacket when he’d been rushing out of the house. Papyrus feels somewhat vindicated for the thought now—clearly it’s important. Maybe it _wouldn’t_ have been weird to remind him to take it.

Still.

“You don’t seem like the type of monster to let a little cold get to you.”

Sans snorts, “Yeah, the _cold_ is why I came back for it.”

Papyrus finds himself struggling to hold back a smile. The sarcasm is a surprise but, in all honesty, a total relief from all the fearful stammering he’s usually suffering through, “If not that, then what?”

“It’s useful. People know exactly who I am when I’m wearing it, no matter how far away or how dark it is,” Sans says, “Not like that asshole tonight. He didn’t know who I was till he got up close with an attack.”

“You’re… you’re saying he wouldn’t have attacked you if he knew who you were?”

“Of course he wouldn’t have,” Sans visibly puffs up with pride, “My brother’s the right hand to the Captain of the Royal Guard. _No one_ fucks with us unless they’re looking for a death wish.”

“Right, because the only one who gets to fuck with _you_ is your _brother_.” Papyrus can’t keep the derision out of his tone. He regrets his bluntness a little when he sees Sans’ wince but he doesn’t apologise. It’s not like they don’t both know it’s true.

There’s something that crosses Sans’ face then, hesitant and fleeting, but when he blinks it’s gone and Sans is sneering at him, “Alright, that’s enough with the off-topic discussion already.”

Sans squares his shoulder and lets the barest hints of magic lick up around him. His right eye pulses red, spitting out wisps of excess magic intermittently. Papyrus shivers as he approaches, face guarded and cold. He stops right in front of him looking down while Papyrus is forced to sit and stare up to maintain eye contact.

“You said you were my brother. Explain.”

Papyrus takes a breath, “It would probably be a lot more accurate to say that this _body_ is your brother’s. I’m just, uh… borrowing it for a bit. And, I guess, in a way, _I’m_ your brother too but… well, maybe we should just take this one thing at a time? It’ll probably be easier to—err, Sans?”

It’s immediately clear that Sans hasn’t heard anything past his initial statement. His expression is stern and his gaze flicks quickly over Papyrus’s body, “My brother’s body? What do you mean?”

“Look, this might be a lot to take in at once but,” Papyrus doesn’t know how much is safe to say without setting Sans off into a full panic, “There are these things called timelines and—”

“I know that,” Sans waves him off like what he’s saying is barely worth the breath it takes to say it. It’s… a little surprising, “Explain to me _how_ this happened.”

He still hesitates. He has no idea what Sans’ brother has or has not told him already. He doesn’t know how much he needs to hide in order to avoid shattering whatever worldview Sans has been keeping. It would be easiest to just be honest but… Papyrus feels that the least he can do is spare him some of the more traumatic details, “There’s this machine. Back home.”

He watches Sans carefully but there’s no change in his expression. He continues, “I guess it’s kind of like a time machine of sorts? Guess it doesn’t really matter what it is because it’s never worked for as long as I can remember. That is, until I started working on it.”

There’s a flicker in Sans’ gaze, “…earlier on, in the forest… why did you say that you _were_ my brother?”

“Yeah, see, that’s why this is all a little complicated to explain,” Papyrus gives an uneasy laugh, “I’m… I’m Papyrus too. _A_ Papyrus. Not _your_ Papyrus but, a Papyrus original to the universe that I’m from. Basically an alternate version of the brother you know and, um… love.”

Sans is quiet.

“Back home, I have a brother named Sans. He’d be the alternate version of you native to my universe,” He manages a small smile, “So, when I said I was your brother, I didn’t quite mean it in the literal sense. Except, of course, for the fact that I’m, uh, sort of stuck in his body.”

A weary sigh escapes him; Papyrus wishes he weren’t bound so that he could at least slump back and let his body relax, “When I ‘fixed’ the machine, I wanted to test it out. I figured I’d send myself back half a day or something—turns out it didn’t send me through time at all. Whatever changes I made to it ended up sending me _here_ instead.”

Sans speaks up again, low and solemn, “So you’re serious then? You’re really in my brother’s body?”

“Yes,” Papyrus confirms, nodding up at him, “Do you, uh… do you believe me?”

“No,” Sans is blunt and Papyrus can feel his soul sink at his unwavering tone. There’s a pause before he continues, “I’ll need some confirmation first.”

Papyrus brightens, “Sure, okay. What do you want me to do?”

“You don’t have to do anything. Just let me check.”

He barely has time to ask what that means before Sans is dropping down to his knees in front of him. He pushes Papyrus’s legs apart, maneuvering made easy since the magic binds him from offering any resistance. His hands come up to the belt looped through his pants and hover over the buckle.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?!” Papyrus shouts, embarrassment instantly flooding through him and setting a blush over his cheekbones.

“Just checking. Calm down.”

“ _Fuck_ no! Stop touching me!”

“I’m not doing anything!”

“That’s _not_ what it looks like from here!” Papyrus realises his voice is going a little screechy at this point but he’s too caught up in making Sans stop to care.

“Will you relax?! As if I don’t have more important things to be doing than _blowing_ you,” Sans snaps but Papyrus can see the way he goes red, “Fine, whatever, I’ll just roll the pant leg up from the bottom if it makes you _happy_ , you whiny, fuckin’ _baby_.”

And that would be a relief, it would, except Papyrus’s breath still catches when Sans’ phalanges brush against the bare bones at his ankle, sending a terrible shudder straight up his spine. It’s followed immediately by the tingling in his head that he recognises in an instant as the hint of a memory. It’s laying there, dormant, ready for him to call out to and view. He doesn’t want to see it. He doesn’t want to do anything but wrench his leg away from Sans’ grasp.

But he can’t move.

So he’s stuck; uncomfortable and awkward and much, _much_ closer to Sans than he’s okay with.

It takes some maneuvering—and a ton of cursing on Sans’ part—but his brother’s copy manages to push the fabric of the left leg of his pants all the way up to the top of his femur. As Sans leans back, Papyrus can clearly see what he’d been after. About half-way up the middle of the bone, an old scar is visible; jagged and faint.

“He got it when he was just a kid,” Sans explains, unprompted, “He said he was ‘training’. Almost broke his leg clean off.”

Papyrus watches him as he speaks, notes the way his face goes soft as he smiles to himself.

“He cried for _hours_ about it—even after I healed him. Pretty sure, he’d deny it now if you asked him though,” There’s no mistaking the fondness in his tone and Papyrus can’t help but feel that Sans’ brother doesn’t deserve it, “In any case, Pap never told anyone about it and it’s not in a place people would accidentally see, so…”

Understanding washes over him, “So it’s not something I could’ve faked.”

Sans nods, “You really _are_ in his body, huh?”

“It’s hard to believe, I know. I’m honestly still processing it.”

Sans gets back up on his feet, looks thoughtful for a second before asking, “So then, where _is_ my brother? Is he in there with you?”

Papyrus starts at that.

A flare of panic rises in him at the thought of not just _being_ in his alternate’s body but _sharing_ it with him. He suppresses a shudder, “ _No_ , definitely not. I’d have noticed him by now if he was.”

(He would have.

He’s sure of it.)

(… it’s not like he’d be able to _hide_.)

“Yeah?” Sans doesn’t sound convinced.

“Come on, you know what your brother is like,” Papyrus is firm, both for Sans’ sake and his own, “Do you really think he’d let me have full run of his body if he was in there with me?”

“Guess not,” Sans hums, but Papyrus can tell he’s not entirely satisfied with that answer, “Okay, so if he’s not in there with you, where is he then?”

Papyrus attempts a shrug, the magic binding him only allowing a few inches of movement at most, “Dunno. I suppose since I’m here in _his_ body, chances are that he’s probably back in my universe in _my_ —”

(No.)

A cold wave of realisation floods through him.

(No, no, no.)

Papyrus feels frozen in a way that not even the bindings on him can match. Right down to his core.

(No _nonononono **no**_.)

“Uhh, you okay there?” Papyrus barely hears the sound of Sans’ voice over the audible rush of thoughts in his own head. He feels a sick, lurching feeling deep inside him, like he’s about to vomit. His vision swims in front of him.

He’s _not_ okay.

(How had he not _realised_?)

How could he be when it’s been over _twenty-four hours_ since he ended up here and he’s only just _now_ coming to terms with what that _really **means**_.

(How could he have failed to make that connection?!)

Because if _he’s_ here in his _alternate’s_ body—

( _What was **wrong** with him?!_ )

—then there’s no doubt that his twin must be back home in _his_ body.

(—he fucked up he fucked up he fucked up—)

And that means _that his brother is in **danger**._

“ _Sans_.” His brother’s name slips from him, strangled and pained.

The wrong person answers, “You’re not looking too good.”

“Your brother is back in my universe,” He manages to get the words out, even though they feel like a death sentence as they force through his teeth, “He’s in my body.”

Sans is unconcerned, “Seems like the logical conclusion.”

“How can you be so calm?!” He yells and Sans takes an alarmed step back, magic flaring up bright and protective around him. There’s fear in his eyes before it’s swiped away and replaced with annoyance.

“What the fuck is wrong with you all of a sudden?!”

“What don’t you get?!” Papyrus feels like he’s sinking in his own guilt, like he’s drowning in the consequences of his actions, “My brother is _trapped_ with yours!”

(Oh god, please let Sans be okay,

please be okay, please be okay, please _please please_ —)

“Is that it?”

Papyrus gapes at him.

Sans looks unimpressed, “If what you’re saying is true and you’re an alternate version of my brother, then it follows that your brother is an alternate version of _me_ , right?”

He nods, body heavy and soul numb.

Sans shrugs, “Then he can handle my brother.”

Papyrus laughs in horrified surprise. It’s a humourless sound, bitter and unlike him.

“What the fuck?!” He’s practically seething in anger, “He shouldn’t _have_ to ‘handle’ him! Your brother is a nightmare!”

He sees Sans bristle at his words but he feels no remorse. Nothing he’s saying is a lie.

“He’s the type of monster that should be locked away for the safety of others.”

(He must know that, right?

Surely he can see that he’d be so much better off without him?)

“Your brother is going to _hurt_ him. Your brother—”

“ _My brother_ doesn’t hurt _anyone_ who doesn’t _already_ **_deserve_** _it_.” Sans interrupts with a snap, voice laden with barely held back contempt.

Papyrus is incredulous, ‘Are you kidding me? He hurts _you_ all the time!”

“Then _maybe_ you ought to stop and _think_ _about why he does_!”

Sans is—

— ** _gasping_** _, loud and wet as tears roll down his face. Papyrus isn’t looking at him anymore— **can’t** look at him while is attention is focused on this instead. He’s a little dazed. He didn’t think it’d break off so **easily**. But he’s clutching the curved bone tightly in his grasp and Sans is holding a **trembling** hand up to the place where his bottom-most rib used to be so there’s no mistaking that it snapped. “Sans…” he starts, but his brother is a murmuring mess of incoherence. “ **Sans**.” He repeats, **firmer** , and his brother **jolts** at the tone of his voice. Their eyes meet and, this time, Sans is the one to look away first, “I-I won’t do it a-again.” And as Papyrus’s phalanges rub over the edge of the break where it’s started to **dust** , he figures that’ll have to be enough—_

—shaking, fuming quietly as he glares down at him. His fists are clenched at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from striking out. Papyrus feels like the words have dried up inside him.

(What can he even say after something like that?)

Silence follows his outburst and Papyrus lowers his gaze.

He can’t look at him without feeling sick. Can’t look at him without overlaying the memories with his own brother in his place. His brother doesn’t deserve to go through that.

 _Nobody_ deserves to go through that.

After a few moments, Sans speaks up again, “In any case, there’s no point in worrying about something you can’t change. What we _need_ to do is decide on what we’re gonna do next.”

“I want to get home,” Papyrus croaks, torn with the images that keep flashing in his head, the shock of ideas that make him wonder what could be happening to his brother this very instant, “As soon as I can.”

(He can’t stay here. He can’t leave his brother at the mercy of that freak. He’s left him alone too long already. He’s been too slow; too caught up in his own problems and he won’t let his brother suffer for _his_ mistakes, he _won’t_ —)

Papyrus takes a breath.

(He needs to calm himself down.

He needs to work with this Sans to he can get home.

He can’t do _anything_ if he’s _panicking_ so he **_needs_ ** to **_calm down_**.)

“Right. The machine…” Sans considers for a moment before he nods, “Okay, I can help you with that.”

Papyrus feels his soul leap, “Do you know where the key—?!”

Sans holds up his hands, “I’ll help you, but _first_ you’ve got to do what I say.”

“What?”

“You need to clean up your messes. You’ve been here a _day_ and you’ve been fucking things up all over the place,” Sans looks grim, “My brother _never_ goes to Grillby’s but you went and started a fight. My brother has _never_ missed a day of work but you took unscheduled time off. My brother would _never_ run off into the night _screaming_ for me like I couldn’t fucking handle things myself and **_yet_**.”

“You… you heard me screaming?” Despite himself, he’s a little embarrassed.

Sans gives him a very pointed look, “My brother worked hard for his reputation. I won’t have you ruining it. So we’re going in for work tomorrow, starting with a quick detour to Undyne’s place. That way we can see if she knows about you ditching.”

“Fine,” Papyrus agrees, but his thoughts linger on Undyne. The magic binding him seems to tingle, “I’ve been thinking… this way that you trapped me; how did you do it?”

“Finally caught on, huh?” Sans grins, “If you’re thinking it seems pretty similar to Undyne’s magic, you’re not wrong. It should seem that way—it was derived from hers after all.”

“What? What do you mean?” Papyrus frowns at him, “How could you possibly wield someone else’s magic like that?”

‘It’s a special pill employed by the Royal Guard. Mostly used on prisoners,” Sans eyes light up, fascination with the subject evident as he speaks, “It’s added regularly to their meals and its effects are triggered by magic usage. It basically makes it so that they can’t call on their magic without ending up bound and vulnerable for hours. Really fucking useful—it’s cut the prison violence rates considerably since it was authorized. It’s perfect because, _obviously_ , no one wants to start a fight only to end up easy pickings for someone else. It even helps cut down non-magic violence because prisoners are stopped from healing themselves at the end of altercations. Means they’d have to go to a guard or healer to sort their shit out. And that in turn means owning up to any fights they got into. I mean, of course, you still get the occasional rule breakers and brawls but it’s _nothing_ like it used to be.”

“Undyne thought that up?” Papyrus is amazed; both by the existence of a suppressant like that and by the fact that this universe was so messed up that they needed it in the first place.

Sans barks out a laugh, and Papyrus is momentarily thrown by the sound of it. It comes genuine and relaxed. Papyrus doesn’t know if he’s ever heard this Sans sound so carefree before, “Are you fucking kidding? Of course not! Her girlfriend's the Royal Scientist; _she_ came up with it.”

“Alphys?” Papyrus ventures as a guess even though, back in his universe, the two hadn’t been dating. He remembers how Undyne would pine though; how she would talk for hours about all Alphys’ greatest qualities. He wonders what she would think if she knew Alphys was the scientist here and _she_ was the ‘fearless warrior’.

“That’s right,” Sans has that sharp grin on his face again, eyes glinting dangerously, “And it just so happens that Alphys owes me quite a lot of favours.”

The way he says it sends shivers all over Papyrus’s body. He can’t help but think of his own brother, training with Alphys and thinking the world of her. It doesn’t seem like the same relationship carries over here.

“So getting a handful of those pills from her and then mixing a couple into the spaghetti I made you was practically baby bones stuff. After that, it was simply a matter of getting you to use your magic.” Sans gives a half-shouldered shrug, like there's nothing more to explain.

“You took that risk?” Papyrus can’t help but ask, “Even when you thought I was your brother?”

Sans scowls, “I already told you, I knew from the beginning that you weren’t—”

“I don’t believe you,” Papyrus says, and he _means_ it. He might have been unsure about it before but it’s unmistakeable to him now, “If you really _did_ know I wasn’t your brother from the very start, then a lot of your actions just don’t add up.”

Sans doesn’t say a word, just stares at him, sockets narrowed.

“For one thing, if you knew, you wouldn’t have tried to pay me back for the take-out from Grillby’s. Come to think of it, you wouldn’t have tried to explain yourself for your tab either. Because why would you need forgiveness from someone who has nothing to do with you?”

Sans opens his mouth as if to protest.

“But more importantly,” Papyrus continues, letting his voice drop softly, “If you already knew I wasn’t your brother, you’d have no reason to flinch every time I came up close to you.”

Sans’ mouth snaps shut and Papyrus feels awful for it. Feels awful because he _knows_ Sans can’t refute it when it’s something that’s instinctual to him at this point.

“So… why did you take the risk?”

After a moment of silence, Sans answers, slow and hesitant, “I… had my suspicions. Since that first night.”

Papyrus watches him as he carefully considers what to say.

“My brother hates it when I wake him up in the middle of the night. But when he—or, really, _you_ , I guess—let it go like it was nothing… it struck me as odd. But I didn’t really think about it too hard at that point… kinda just figured I got lucky, you know?”

Sans shrugs it off, continues more firmly, “But, in the morning, you skipped work and that was _weird_. It was unprecedented and I couldn’t just let that go. So I asked you about it and you acted strange and unlike him when you responded. At that point, my suspicions where already hiked up, so when I saw your eyes—”

“My eyes,” Papyrus interrupts, “I was wondering what you mean by that earlier. What’s wrong with them exactly? How did they give me away?”

Sans blinks, “Well… they’re orange.”

Papyrus stares back at him, uncomprehending.

“My brother’s are red,” Sans explains, “But only when he’s actively using magic or putting them on like an intimidation tactic. Otherwise, they’re generally white when he’s relaxed. And yours are _always_ orange. Always on. It’s weird—kinda like you’re running on an excess of magic or something.”

“Huh,” Papyrus says, “How do I, uh… turn them ‘off’?”

“Dunno,” Sans seems to think it over, “Maybe you can’t? Since you _are_ bound to my brother’s body after all, and it seems like it’d take a constant outpouring of magic to keep you stabilized there. I don’t think it matters anyway. Unless the long-term usage of magic is wearing you out…? Is it? Do you feel lethargic or fatigued? Any strain concentrated around your eyes in particular?”

Papyrus gets a weird flash right then—an image of Sans standing in a crisp, white lab-coat. It’s not quite a memory but he knows instantly that Sans used to work for the Crown in their labs. He can hear the exact slip of his tone into the professional; the clinical snap of his questions like they were rehearsed for a post-experiment debriefing.

He shakes his head, wary and cautious, and Sans hums to himself thoughtfully, “Probably not important then.”

“So what happened next?” Papyrus prompts, eager to get the sudden attention off of himself.

Sans sighs, “Nothing. You got pissed at me and I told myself I must’ve been imagining things, so I left.”

“I saw you next at Grillby’s but by then it was just another weird occurrence that I told myself to ignore. It… it was when you _healed_ me later that I couldn’t brush it off any more. That’s when I seriously started to consider the fact that you weren’t my brother,” Sans pauses at a length, his voice goes reminiscent, “Boss has never healed me before.”

Sans goes quiet at that. Papyrus doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Silence reigns.

Sans shakes his head and takes a breath, “So I came up with a plan. I went to Alphys and cashed in a couple favours to get the pills. I’d use them on you—if it turned out you weren’t my brother, I’d dust you, simple as that. And if you _were_ Boss then… well, it’s not like I don’t know how to heal myself if things get particularly rough.”

He says it so casually that Papyrus flinches.

“But you wouldn’t sleep with me,” Sans laughs, wry and cold, “You wouldn’t even kiss me. So I was out of simple ways to force you to use magic short of starting a fight. I figured I’d leave for a bit—it would take longer than I accounted for but you’d use magic at _some_ point. I was hoping that by the time I came home, I’d find you bound already. Then I could question you or work on explaining myself, depending on whether or not you really _were_ my brother.”

“But then I forgot my jacket and…” He trails off, “You know how that ended.”

Papyrus sighs, “Your plan worked is how it ended.”

“Yeah, well,” Sans shrugs, “I didn’t plan for your fucking _hero complex_ , but it worked out in my favour so I guess I can’t complain.”

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Papyrus repeats, firm and honest. Sans only grunts in response, the tiniest hints of red flushing against his bones, “And thank you for explaining it to me.”

“Heh, it’s no skin off my bones,” Sans says, forced casual, and Papyrus holds back a smile, “’Sides, it’s probably best that we get all that out of the way before going to see Undyne anyway. We both need to be on the same page when dealing with her.”

“So we’re going for sure then?”

Sans nods, serious once more, “First thing tomorrow morning.”

“And what about,” Papyrus tries to shift where he’s sitting to no avail, “ _these_.”

“What, the bindings? They’ll be gone by morning,” He says, indifferent, “You’ll sleep it off.”

Papyrus stares at him, “You can’t be serious… you actually expect me to fall asleep like this?”

Never mind that he’s fallen asleep in stranger ways and stranger positions back home. It’s the _principle_ of the matter.

(They were moving forward together, weren’t they?

They’d built a tentative sort of trust.

So why couldn’t Sans just—)

“ ‘s not like I can do anything about it right now,” Sans answers his unspoken question, “It’s dangerous to fiddle with it. Better to just let it run its course while you're getting some rest for tomorrow.”

Papyrus stops himself from groaning in frustration, “ _Fine_. But I can’t make it up to the room like this.”

Sans blinks, “So?”

“So _you’ll_ have to take me up there.” He tries not to sound _too_ exasperated, figures it’s not worth it when they’ve only just managed a tentative peace.

But silence follows his statement and Papyrus can feel his hopes sink. A wicked grin affixes itself to Sans’ face, “Nah.”

“What—”

“The couch is pretty comfortable,” He looks positively _malicious_ , “If you manage to avoid all the loose springs and ignore the weird smells.”

“Sans—”

“Welp, it’s getting pretty late,” Sans fakes a yawn and Papyrus gapes at him, “Gotta get up early in the morning after all.”

“ ** _Sans!_** ”

But he teleports out of his line of sight in an instant.

Papyrus is really starting to hate it when he does that, though he figures a good part of it is less Sans messing with him and more him just trying to keep his distance. It’s still weird being on the other side of teleportation though. He’s never had to be the one cut short in the middle of a conversation.

He wonders briefly if his brother ever felt this annoyed whenever he discreetly ‘ported his way out of unfavourable situations.

Papyrus’s soul squeezes in his chest.

His brother…

(He can’t think too hard about him.

He _can’t_.)

(If he does, he’ll never be able to focus on anything long enough to get home.)

But it’s one thing to know it and quite another to put it into practice, and Papyrus can't stop himself from wondering what’s going on with Sans, stuck as he is with the worst kind of monster.

(Is he safe?)

(Does he know that it’s not really _him_ in that body?)

(Is he hurting?)

And even as the suppressing magic lessens enough for Papyrus to slump against the armrest of the couch, thoughts of his brother continue to plague every waking moment.

Sleep doesn’t come for a good long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know no one likes to hear this but this chapter had to be cut in half hhhhhh it was HUGE and i was tired of not posting anything for a whole month so i broke it up into two. (somehow though, this is still the longest chapter to date hahaha) on the bright side though, i seem to be recovering from my writer's block so i'm gonna try to power through with the next one /////thumbs up


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway, here's strongfish

_He tastes dirt._

_It’s rubs up **coarse** against his face and **reeks** of the Waterfall dampness that’s become so familiar to him by now. He struggles to get back up, pushes off the floor and onto his knees, whirling around with his magic at the ready._

_Undyne cackles, “How’s the floor treating ya, Paps?”_

_“Fuck off.” He snarls, shooting out a row of bone attacks that just stop short of reaching her._

_She’s unimpressed. She walks up and spins her spear, destroys the constructs like they’re merely an afterthought, “Your magic is unstable today.”_

_She charges at him. Papyrus forces himself to his feet and prepares to dodge. He’s just about to shoot off to the side when Undyne laughs and he feels a **tugging** at his soul, binding him in place. He only has seconds to react, bringing up his hands to shield himself as Undyne swings her fists at him._

_He only blocks the first attack. The second strikes him with a solid **thump** against his sternum and knocks him back, **gasping**._

_“You usually last a lot longer than this.”_

_“Shut up.” He bites, pushing himself back into an offensive stance._

_He let’s his magic flare up, conjures a blood red bone construct pointed at one end. He wields it in his hand like someone untrained would hold a dagger, unrefined and certainly not like Undyne has been trying to drill into him. He rushes up at her and slashes aggresively, smirks to himself when she rolls her eyes and steps to the side._

_He’s herded her exactly where he planned._

_With a grin, he springs his trap. A line of sharpened constructs sprout from the ground at her feet. Undyne’s one good eye goes wide as they shoot up towards her and—_

_His attacks shimmer out of existence._

_He collapses; falls to the ground **exhausted** and panting._

_There’s a moment of quiet before Undyne speaks._

_“You’ve been way too tense all day,” She moves forward and Papyrus can feel her shadow looming over him. He looks up and sees that she has her hand outstretched. With a grumble, he takes it and lets her pull him to his feet. She gives him a knife-edged grin, “Maybe you need to get laid.”_

_Papyrus sputters, “W-what?!”_

_She roars with laughter as his face colours, slaps a hand against his back, “You’re so wound up today! If a good **fight** isn’t easing you off, maybe a good **fuck** will!”_

_“Don’t be disgusting.”_

_“I’m serious!” She’s still smiling, the wide spread of her mouth putting all her numerous pointed teeth on horrifying display as she wraps an arm around his shoulders, “Come on, Papyrus! You’re only a few years younger than me! You expect me to believe that you’ve **never** messed around with anyone before?”_

_He glowers at her, shrugs off her arm, “I haven’t.”_

_She looks thoughtful, “Huh… seriously?”_

_“I **haven’t**.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“It’s not important to me.” He shrugs, starts to check himself over for injuries that need to be healed like he does at the end of all their practices._

_“Well, I guess it makes sense,” She says as she slips into her own post-practice routine, “People won’t fuck you if they don’t **like** you.”_

_He stills, “What the fuck is **that** supposed to mean?”_

_“I’m saying nobody likes you, Paps,” She continues, disinterested, as if she’s just stating facts and not making a statement about his entire character, “What did you think I was saying?”_

_He can feel his face heat up with **anger** , “I **knew** what you **meant**. I was just giving you a chance to rethink your choice of words.”_

_She looks over at him—his fists clenched at his sides and teeth grinding together—and laughs, “Oh shit, are you **mad**? Aww, come on, you know I don’t mean it in a **bad** way! **I** like you well enough.”_

_He turns away, focuses hard on taking off his training gear and stacking it neatly in a pile at his feet instead of on the burning of his temper._

_“Wouldn’t fuck you though. You’re just not my type, sorry.”_

_“I don’t **care**.” He spits, determined to ignore her._

_“I guess it’s just one more way you’re different from your brother.”_

_His breath catches, “…what?”_

_“Sans,” She says his name with a click of her tongue, as if simply mentioning him is **distasteful** , “ **He** seems to have no problem fucking anyone or anything.”_

_“What are you talking about?”_

_She raises a brow at him, “You don’t know?”_

_“Undyne,” He tries his best to keep his voice level, steady. His magic lights up bright and **furious** from his right eye anyway, “Why in the **hell** would I ask if I already **knew**?”_

_“Alright, alright, calm the fuck down,” She placates, humour still laced in her tone, “It’s not even that big of a deal, really. Just rumours about him sleeping around, I guess.”_

_Her words feel like **ice** chipping into him. He feels cold all over. Just the thought of his brother being with anyone in that way feels **wrong**. There’s an ugly **gnawing** inside of him that **crawls** its way up his spine and he resists the urge to shudder._

_“Normally, I wouldn’t even pay attention to it but, I’ve been wondering for quite a while now how he manages to avoid getting dusted being as weak as he is. Seems like maybe this is his way.”_

_“It’s not true.” The words stumble out of him before he can hold them back and he curses his impulsiveness. He sounds defensive, even to himself. Undyne doesn’t miss it._

_“Hey, I’m not holding it against him or anything. There are worse ways to ensure your survival. Besides,” She gives him a wink, “There're easier things to judge him for. Like, for one, what the hell is up with how **sweaty** he is? Fucking disgusting, honestly.”_

_“It’s **not true** ,” He’s already blurted out the words earlier, the least he can do is back them up now, “I’d know if he were.”_

_“Yeah?” She sounds skeptical._

_“We live in the same house, Undyne. Do you **really** think I’d miss something like that going on right in front of me?”_

_“Guess not,” She concedes after a brief pause, “I still think he’s suspiciously close to that bartender though.”_

_“They’re friends.” He says stiffly._

_Undyne laughs, “So what? Remember when I said people have gotta like you to fuck you? Being friends would make that a lot easier I think.”_

_“You’re wrong.”_

_“Sure it would—”_

_“No, I mean people don’t **have** to like you.”_

_It’s as if the chill in his bones passes over into the air through his words. Undyne freezes, slowly drags her gaze to meet his. She doesn’t say a word but the squint of her eyes on him are question enough._

_“You could, for example, **pay** them to fuck you,” he says, calm and collected as he continues to strip off the last of his armour, “Or… you could simply **overpower** them.”_

_He doesn’t really mean anything by it. He suspects, on some level, Undyne knows this too._

_Nevertheless, he’s upset her._

_He can tell by the way Undyne is gripping the spear in her hand **tight** , muscles **tensed**. But he already knows that she won’t attack him; they have too much history for that sort of thing. Still, he feels a trill of **satisfaction** in having shocked her like this._

**_Good_ ** _._

_Maybe now she’d think twice before talking about his brother like she knew him._

_“That’s a dangerous line of thinking, Papyrus,” She says, voice edged with a barely held back growl, “Certainly not the sort I’d allow from a Guardsman.”_

_He continues as if they’re conversing like normal; as if he hasn’t just said something despicable, “I’m just—”_

_“I’d better not hear **anything** like this from you again, is that clear?” She cuts him off and Papyrus is momentarily taken aback. There’s… a surprising amount of **anger** in her tone._

_He frowns, “Undyne—”_

_“ **Is that clear, Lieutenant?** ”_

_He snaps to attention, left hand pressed at his side and right fisted over his soul in salute, “Yes, Captain.”_

_“Grab your things,” She jerks her chin towards his equipment on the floor, “You’re dismissed for the day.”_

_He hesitates._

_He’s not used to being sent away like this. Usually their practices will end with a meal that they’ll prepare together. If not, then there’s at least some level of banter that they’ll engage in while winding down. It’s… disconcerting how clipped she’s being with him._

_“Captain…”_

_She sighs, **heavy** and **disappointed** , and Papyrus **hates** how the sound prickles uncomfortably inside his skull, “Go home, Paps.”_

_He gives her a short nod, “Understood.”_

_He picks up his things._

_He salutes._

_He walks away._

_He…_

_… wonders if maybe this is what **guilt** feels like._

 

“Hey. Get up.”

He’s less groggy when he wakes this time, though the aftermath of a memory always leaves him feeling a little disoriented. Sans is standing off to the side, a good foot away from him, impatient scowl on his face. Papyrus takes a moment to stretch and ease the stiffness of his joints.

He blinks.

He takes _another_ moment to enjoy just how _good_ it feels to be **_able_** to stretch and ease the stiffness in his joints. He can move again and it comes as a tremendous relief. It seems Sans wasn’t lying to him—the bindings really had worn off while he slept.

“Your brother is seriously messed up.” He yawns, thinking back on the memory and rubbing at his neck as he twists it from side to side.

“Good morning to you too, asshole.”

“Not gonna defend him?”

“You’re greatly overestimating the amount fucks I give about what you think of my brother,” Sans replies, voice tight in a way that makes Papyrus believe he’s not overestimating at all, “Now hurry up. It’s fuckin’ unbelievable how long you sleep. You _sure_ you’re really a Papyrus?”

Papyrus doesn’t reply. He doesn’t get the feeling that it matters if he does. Sans isn’t really looking for an answer; it seems more like he’s simply talking for the sake of it.

He doesn’t make a move to get up either, just watches Sans sleepily while scratching at the back of his spine, “You’re different.”

“Yet another genius insight! You’re right, my brother and I _are_ different! _Probably_ on account of not being the same monster, _you fucking **idiot**_.”

Papyrus bites back his laugh but can’t keep a grin from spreading wide across his face. Sans is honestly much more preferable like this than when he’s on the edge of some sort of emotional collapse. Even if it _does_ seem like he’s forcing the snark a little.

(Is he relying on it out of nervousness?

Is it something like a crutch?

But why? Papyrus has done nothing but be civil to him.)

… it’s still nice. Despite the caveats.

He decides that he likes it.

“No, I mean like… you’re _acting_ differently. As in, you’re different with other people than you are around your brother.”

“Obviously? Everyone’s different around family.”

“Most monsters would be a lot more _relaxed_ around family,” Papyrus points out, “Or, at the very least, not tense up and stutter every time they’re in the same room with them.”

Sans flinches, the aforementioned tenseness sliding back into his shoulders.

(Well, shit.

Smooth, Paps. _Real_ smooth.)

“I didn’t mean—” Papyrus starts, only to get cut off as Sans turns away from him.

“Right. Well. If you’re done _analysing_ me, will you get the fuck up already?” He doesn’t seem angry or upset. Really, he sounds more or less resigned, “Undyne doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

That sobers him up a little.

When it comes to differences, it seems like this whole universe has been turned on its head. _Everything_ is different. It doesn’t seem like too much of a stretch to think every _one_ would be too.

He’s glad for the memory he saw—he doesn’t think he could’ve schooled his envitable culture shock fast enough without it—but it’s still jarring to see Undyne so changed from what he’s used to. No longer is she the fumbling, quirky scientist he’d worked alongside once upon a time. She’s rougher; hard-edged and merciless with her attacks. She’s a lot like Alphys back where he’s from, if a good bit meaner.

(Still.)

He thinks back to her terseness. Her fury. Her righteous indignation.

(She didn’t seem _all_ bad.)

In the end, she’s still Undyne at her core and Papyrus thinks that maybe… maybe that’s enough. He can work with that. He can handle it.

(She was his friend in one universe, right?

There’s no reason that she can’t be the same in another.)

He gets up off the couch, “So, what’s next?”

“Well, first you should probably change into one of the other uniforms in yo—in my brother’s closet.”

He frowns, “Why? What’s wrong with this one?”

Sans stares at him like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, “You slept in it.”

Papyrus looks down at himself and inspects the clothes he has on. He sees maybe a handful of wrinkles, practically unnoticeable if you ask him, and it’s not like the clothes _smell_. He tugs a little on the bottom of the top, “I don’t see the problem.”

“Listen—just—” Sans sighs, squeezes his sockets closed like explaining this is physically paining him, “Just go change, alright? It’s what my brother would do.”

(There’s…

… there’s not much arguing with that logic.)

He trudges upstairs to comply.

By the time he’s changed and come back down, Sans is standing by the door, all set to go. Papyrus notes that his thick black coat is back on and wonders if Sans has several of those as well since, apparently, he wears it all the time. There’s a strangely personal look to it though; it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing someone could buy in bulk from a store. A gift, maybe? Something tingles pleasantly at the back of his skull at the thought and, although there’s no memory to back up his theory, Papyrus thinks of it as confirmation.

Thoughts distracted, he walks up to Sans and the smaller skeleton shoves something into his hands.

“Hang on to this.” He says, impatient and quick, the words barely out of his mouth before he’s turning to open the door.

Papyrus closes his phalanges down on it instinctively before he even gets a look at it. It feels soft and well-worn to his touch. When he does drag his gaze down, he’s met with the sight of a long length of leather. Frowning, he follows the lead up to where it reaches Sans and trails to his neck. It attaches to a spiked collar that peaks over the top of his fur-lined hood.

Papyrus drops the leash as if scalded, “What the fuck.”

“What’s—” Sans turns around to look at him, sees the leather dropped to the floor, “Oh.”

“What the _fuck_.” He repeats, emphatic.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just my—”

“I _know_ what it _is_ ,” Papyrus feels a sudden rush of anger pulsing through him, making him shout, “You must be fucking with me, right? Don’t tell me he _actually_ keeps you **_tethered_** like this?!”

He regrets raising his voice as soon as Sans shrinks back against the door.

His eyelights have gone pinpricked and he’s holding himself as small as possible and as far away as he can. It’s clearly an unconscious decision on his part, seeing as he stiffens when he realises and straightens up immediately. Papyrus feels heavy with guilt at the sight.

He’s about to apologise when Sans fixes him with a glare.

“Is this what you do back in your universe?” Sans is glowering at him but it’s clearly forced bravery; his words come stilted and uncomfortable, “Make a big deal out of every little thing?”

The cautiousness in Sans’ eyes douses the anger in him completely. He tries to keep his voice soft, “It’s not a ‘little thing’, Sans. Not to me. I don’t want to drag you around on a leash like some sort of… _pet_.”

Sans watches him carefully, posture still rigid. After a moment, he gives a tight shrug, “Yeah, well, what you want doesn’t really matter.”

“I don’t see why we even need this—you went out yesterday, didn’t you? You weren’t wearing this then.”

“That’s because I’m only ever on the leash when I’m being punished for something,” Sans explains, unaware of how nauseated every word makes Papyrus feel, “And that’s why doing it like this works out _perfectly_ in our favour. Because being collared means I can’t leave Boss’s side and gives me the perfect excuse to go to Undyne’s with you without making her suspicious.”

“And what am I supposed to be punishing you _for_ exactly?”

“It doesn’t matter. No one’s gonna ask you for specifics.”

Papyrus shakes his head, “I still don’t feel comfortable doing this.”

Sans sighs, that perpetually tired look in his eyes seeming more pronounced than ever, “Look. You fixed that machine, right? That’s got to mean that you’re not a _complete_ idiot at the very least. So, trust me when I say that, unless you wanna deal with Undyne on your _own_ , this is the best way to make sure I can monitor the situation with you.”

Papyrus gives him a long look; takes in the exhaustion on his face and the bags under his sockets. For all his talk, he doesn’t think Sans is comfortable with this course of action either. Pushing aside his unease, he relents, “Fine. I guess it’s better than standing around arguing about it.”

(He hates this.)

He picks the leash up off the floor and grips it tight in his hand. Sans nods at him, unlocks the door and steps to the side so Papyrus can leave first. He squares his shoulders and steps out the door, feeling as if the leather in his hand is burning an imprint into his bones. Sans follows after him, keeping what he tells Papyrus is a ‘respectable distance’.

(He hates this— _he **hates** this_.)

(But he has no choice.)

The walk through Snowdin to Waterfall is surprisingly quick.

Back home, Papyrus would get stopped by people over and over on his way to see his friend on her days off. Here, there aren’t very many monsters outside in the first place. The ones that _are_ immediately steer clear when they see him walking their way. Just the crunch of his boots against the snow is enough for their heads to snap to attention and for them to scurry off to the sides, leaving the path clear to him.

(It sends a shiver through him to think what his alternate must have done to obtain such deference.)

While no one meets _his_ gaze, Papyrus notices that a few of the older looking monsters will sneak glances up at Sans as he follows behind him. The expressions on their faces as they do make Papyrus peek back over his shoulder at the short skeleton.

Sans’ hands are stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, a lazy smile stretching wide across his face and eyes staring resolutely ahead. He walks with the casual gait of someone unbothered by everything around him, not a care in the world. Papyrus turns back around. He frowns.

It’s not that fact that the monsters are staring at Sans that confuses him—in fact, with that collar around his neck, he’d be more surprised if they _weren’t_ —it’s that the look in their eyes isn’t what he would have expected in this sort of situation. It’s not sympathy; it’s not even some sort of cruel, blackened apathy.

It’s _apprehensiveness_ he recognises in their eyes.

It’s _fear_.

As if they’re more afraid of Sans than they are of Papyrus.

“Is it really that different?”

At the sound of Sans’ voice, Papyrus startles from his thoughts, “What?”

“Your head keeps snapping from left to right like some kind of god damn tourist,” Sans says with the raise of a brow ridge, “Are things really so different from what you’re used to in your universe?”

“It’s just… odd, I guess. Everyone’s so reserved here. So cautious.”

“They need to be. You let your guard down and you could get dusted in an instant.”

“It’s not like that at home,” Papyrus says as they continue to walk through Waterfall. The area is empty of any signs of life other than the rush of the water and the echoes of their footsteps as they pass, “People are friendlier there; more open with each other. Most monsters are gentle and kind.”

There’s a pause. The cavernous sounds around them fill the silence. Then Sans speaks again, quiet and contemplative, “And your brother?”

Papyrus looks back at him, “My brother? What about him?”

“Is he like that too?” Sans’ voice is low, almost too quiet to hear over the din of the water, “Gentle and… kind.”

“He is,” Papyrus confirms, “He’s energetic too. And happy.”

Sans doesn’t interrupt, continues to listen with his gaze firmly directed at his feet.

“He wants to join the Royal Guard one day,” Papyrus smiles to himself, “He means the world to me.”

There’s no follow up response from Sans. They fall into silence instead, walking steadily on. Papyrus wonders what Sans is thinking; wonders if he’s envious of a version of him that he’s never met, walking around with not a scar to his frame.

(He tries really hard not to focus too hard on his brother himself.

Tries not to envision new cracks and fissures along his bones.

Tries not to think of him being broken by someone wearing his face.)

It’s a while before they reach Undyne’s but, when they do, Papyrus feels his soul stutter in his chest at how familiar it is. Right before him is the same house with the same unique construction that he spends so much of his free time at, whittling the hours away with his best friend. And yet, the differences are also immediately apparent—the house is clearly much more worn down; scratches and dents striking against the otherwise smooth planes.

Not to mention that the whole area has an air of dangerous intent that seeps into his bones as he stands staring.

“Knock.” Sans prompts.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he does.

His knock is instantly followed by the sound of loud crashing from inside the house. He jolts where he stands, casts an uneasy look at Sans who just stares impassively back at him. The pounding of racing steps against tiles comes closer before, finally, the door pulls open in front of him.

A scarred face and sharp-toothed grin greet him, “You finally made—!”

Undyne trails off and stares at him.

He stares back.

“Oh,” she says, completely disenchanted as her grin slips off her face, “It’s you.”

“Captain.” He greets her formally, saluting like he remembers from the memory.

Undyne just rolls her eyes, “Yeah, yeah. What the fuck do you want?”

“I had something to discuss with you, Captain.” He resists the urge to look back at Sans for confirmation.

“Alright,” she sighs, “Come in, I guess.”

He nods at her and steps forward, making sure to thoroughly wipe his feet on the mat before striding into her home. He steps past her and into the kitchen, instantly taking note of the many changes in décor to the house back in his universe. He’s contemplating the benefits of having a spear stabbed right through the middle of a dining table when Undyne’s voice catches his attention.

“Not you,” She says and Papyrus turns to see her holding up a hand and barring Sans from entry, “I just cleaned and you’re always fucking _filthy_. I’m not gonna clean again just because you can’t be bothered to watch what you step in.”

Sans scowls at her and opens his mouth to protest but Undyne simply turns to Papyrus instead, “Tell him to stay outside.”

He flicks his gaze over to Sans. Their eyes meet and Papyrus wonders if he looks as helpless as he feels. There’s a shift in Sans’ expression, one that looks a lot like acceptance. He gives the slightest of nods.

Papyrus speaks clear and sharp, despite the apprehensive pounding of his soul, “You heard the Captain. Stay outside.”

“ ‘kay, boss.” Sans steps back, allowing Undyne to slam the door closed with frightening finality.

Papyrus feels like he’s been sealed into a death trap.

He resists the sudden urge to jump out the window to escape.

“So,” Undyne muses, “What’s with the collar?”

(Well, _fuck_.

So much for no one asking for specifics.)

“Umm…” he says smartly.

(… that window is looking more and more appealing by the second.)

Undyne doesn’t seem to notice. Instead she walks over to the window by the door and looks outside, glowering at what she sees, “Ughh, just look at him standing there. I wish you’d dust him already.”

At her words, Papyrus immediately stiffens. His fists unconsciously clench at his sides, body going tight and tensed. Unfortunately, this time Undyne _does_ notice. She turns around and eyes his posture up and down.

She sighs, “ _Relax_. I know already.”

Papyrus just stares at her, unsure of what she’s getting at.

“He’s your brother,” she continues, “I won’t hurt him and I won’t make _you_ hurt him either.”

He manages to get his voice working again, “Of course, Captain. My apologies.”

“You should know me better than that by now, Paps,” She gives him a long, meaningful look, “Though I still stand by what I’ve said before—you could do so much _more_ without him holding you back.”

He doesn’t answer.

He has no idea what his alternate would say in response to something like that.

(Especially since the implication seems to be that he actually _cares_ what happens to Sans?)

(What the fuck??

Since _when??!_ )

Undyne doesn’t seem to mind though. She simply moves away from the window and walks towards the dining table. She drops down easily into a chair and gestures at another, motions for Papyrus to sit as well. After a brief moment of hesitance, he does.

“In any case, what did you say the collar was for again?”

“He’s… being punished.” Papyrus offers, voice as firm as he can make it in that hopes that she won’t push any further than that.

“Huh,” She watches him carefully and Papyrus can feel himself start to sweat under her scrutiny, “You’re still doing that?”

(… uh…)

“… yes?”

He mentally rebukes himself for how uncertain his response sounds. Thankfully, it seems Undyne is too busy contemplating something to have noticed. She’s looking off to the side, a pensive expression on her face.

“Have you talked to him yet?”

He has _no idea_ what she’s talking about.

He keeps his expression as carefully neutral as he can. He doesn’t want her to catch even the slightest wind of his current internal turmoil. He finds himself desperately wishing for a memory to help him sort out the confusion but nothing comes to him. Not even the slightest prickle in his head.

His silence seems to be answer enough.

“Well, when you do, let me know,” She leans back in her chair, “If you _want_ to, of course. I won’t force you to talk about it if you’d rather not.”

“Thank you.” He says it on automatic, forced by habit.

She laughs, ragged and piercing, and Papyrus tries not to wince, “You’re being awfully polite today.”

( _Shit._ )

“You’ve got a problem with that?” He gives it his best growl.

(He wonders if it sounds as fake as it feels.)

“Nah, it’s nice,” Undyne grins, and gives him a wink, “I always _did_ think you were getting a little too fresh with me for your own good.”

He forces a scowl at her and she continues to snort to herself, shaking with easy laughter. After a moment, she rolls her shoulders and starts to stretch her arms above her head. Papyrus watches uneasily as she directs a sharp smile his way.

“Alright, well, let’s get started then.”

He blinks at her, “Get started…?”

“Yeah,” Papyrus feels a cold rush of dread wash over him. Because he recognises that look in her eyes. It’s the same wild spark his own Undyne would get back home whenever she thought of a new, particularly _explosive_ , experiment, “You interrupted preparations for my date tonight. The _least_ you could do is make it up to me with a little sparring.”

( ** _No_**.

There was _no. fucking. way._ )

(He didn’t think he could _survive_ something like that.)

“I, uh, actually needed to talk to you about something.” He hedges instead.

Undyne waves him off, “Whatever it is can come after.”

Before he can get another word in, Undyne jumps to her feet and grabs him by the arm. He tries to protest but, with a tug, she pulls him up as well and starts to drag him to the front door.

“Undyne—wait—”

“Nope.” She kicks the door open with her foot and pushes Papyrus outside. He stumbles as he exits, catches sight of Sans watching curiously from the corner of his eyes.

“What’s going on, boss?”

Papyrus can’t help the desperate lilt to his answer, “Undyne wants to spar.”

The way Sans’ sockets go wide is not at _all_ reassuring, “She wants to _what?_ ”

Sooner than he can speak, a spear slices through the air, cutting right by the side of his skull and embedding itself into the ground by his feet. He turns, shaky, to see Undyne standing offensively with another spear at the ready.

Her shark-toothed smile glints at him like a taunt, “Show me what you’ve got, Lieutenant.”

“ _Shit_.” Sans whispers before quickly clamping his mouth shut and directing a wary glance his way. Papyrus thinks that maybe he wasn’t supposed to hear that. Primarily since Sans’ lack of faith in him is not exactly doing _wonders_ for his confidence.

Undyne cackles where she stands, spins her spear with the ease born from years of practice. Papyrus plants his feet firmly in the ground. Sans darts another look up at him and he resolutely ignores it.

(He doesn’t think he can handle another reminder that he’s not exactly well-versed in combat.)

“Fine,” Undyne growls, impatient, “If _you’re_ not gonna make the first move, _I_ **_will_**.”

Undyne charges at him.

(He fucking hates this universe _so god damn **much**_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of my favourite hcs for underfell is that every character is essentially the same as their ut!counterpart. just 'meaner' and harder-edged because of the world they've been forced into. they've got to bury all that good stuff somewhere deep for fear of it being exploited. that's why undyne is _still_ all about the good of the people and papyrus _still_ really values her opinion of him B')
> 
> also, I feel the need to change the story summary to something more descriptive but I have no idea what to write ////rip
> 
> any suggestions?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a _huuuuuge_ thank you to everyone who gave me suggestions for the new summary! I managed to whip up something a little more descriptive thanks to all your help  <33 //////smooches

There’s no time to prepare.

Luckily, he’s faster than his lethargic appearance would imply.

A rush of adrenaline pumps through him and he feels instantly on high alert. He dodges Undyne’s first punch, ducks when she swings around with her other hand and jumps when she swipes with her feet. As she gets back into stance, he backs away and tries to increase the distance between them as much as he possibly can.

It’s been quite a while since he’s had to fight anyone but Papyrus falls back into the rhythm like a well-worn shirt.

He rolls his joints, tries to make himself as limber as possible for whatever’s about to come. He stares Undyne down from the distance between them, ready to jump away the slightest sign of trouble. She’s watching him carefully, an animalistic snarl still fixed to her face that suggests a bloodthirst he can’t hope to match. He grits his teeth.

Undyne runs up once more, screeching loud and unrestrained.

Again she directs a fist his way and again he dodges it with ease. However, this time, she conjures a spear as her follow-up attack. Papyrus only just barely manages to catch the glint of her magic in the corner of his vision and turns at the last second. The spear tears through his uniform as he escapes to the side. Undyne gives a roar of frustration at this and swings her weapon again but, now that he’s seen it, it’s an easy thing to evade before it comes too close.

He's actually feeling pretty confident with how the fight is going when he hears a growl from behind him. He tenses immediately but also knows enough to not turn his back to Undyne to find out what it is.

(It… also helps that he recognises the sound as Sans’ familiar timbre.)

“What the fuck are you _doing_?” His brother’s angry copy hisses at him from the sidelines, just low enough to be out of Undyne’s hearing, “Use your bone attacks! Fight back!”

Papyrus is almost a little offended—does Sans honestly think he hasn’t considered that already?

Sure he hasn’t really had many chances to show-off his modest combat skills, but he’s not _completely_ awful at this sort of thing. It’s just that, at the same time, Papyrus remembers quite vividly what happened the _last_ time he tried to do any fighting in this universe. As in, just yesterday, back in the forest.

That night, when he’d tried to fight off that monster attacking Sans, he’d called up a strike of bones and had gotten a blaster at his side instead. He’d only just barely managed to control it and keep it from killing someone. If at all possible, Papyrus would like to avoid a repeat of that scenario.

He may prefer his own Undyne to this one, but the last thing he wants to do is straight up blast her to smithereens.

So. No magic.

At least not until he knows for certain what caused the aberration in the first place.

Undyne pounces at him but, despite his wandering thoughts, he’s still on high alert. She’s wielding two spears now, twisting them around her body in a show of her mastery over them before shooting them off, hard, in his direction. His display is a little less graceful than hers, but he sidesteps out of their way.

She’s full-on glaring at him now, eyes narrowed and unamused, “What’s your game here, Papyrus?”

“No game.” He manages to grunt as he avoids yet another spear aimed at his head.

If anything, she scowls harder at that and Papyrus can practically feel the burning disapproval of Sans’ gaze on his back, “Then why aren’t you attacking?”

“With all due respect, there’s more to a fight then just the offense, Captain.”

She doesn’t like that answer, “You think you can just take things easy, is that it?”

“No, of course n—”

“Maybe you just need a little more incentive.” Undyne attacks before he can even fully register her words.

Papyrus barely holds back a startled yelp as he rushes at him, fists flying faster than anything she’s thrown at him so far. He ducks and dodges but every hit seems a little closer than the last. The last one grazes the side of his face and Papyrus inhales sharply as he narrowly avoids it. She’s cackling now, her voice sharp and piercing in his head, and Papyrus makes a desperate leap backwards in order to regain some space between them.

With a thud, he collides with a cave wall at his back.

An immediate rise of panic envelops him as his hands scramble for purchase against the cold stone—he’s trapped himself.

“Bad move.” Undyne grins.

She raises her hand and sends a swiftly summoned spear hurtling towards him.

Even as he moves to react, he knows it’s hopeless. He won’t be able to escape it quick enough. The spear will hit and… with HP like his…

… one hit is all it’ll take.

The bright magic of the weapon comes speeding towards him and Papyrus braces himself for impact. He brings his arms up defensively across his soul and plants his feet, firm and heavy, in the damp, softened ground. There’s a spark of brilliant light from the attack and Papyrus reflexively closes his eyes.

He waits for the spear to hit.

It doesn’t.

Undyne laughs, “Finally getting serious, huh?”

Papyrus opens his sockets to a row of conjured bone constructs sprouting from the ground around him and effectively shielding him from all sides. Slightly dazed, he looks just over them at Undyne who’s still grinning at him, wide and pleased. The glint of her pointed teeth makes him shudder.

“That’s more like it!” She says as her attack—currently wedged between two bones in front of him—shimmers and dissipates.

Papyrus is at a loss. He hadn’t called on any magic at all. There had been no point in trying; he’d already known his reaction time would be too slow to manage a proper defense. But… if _he_ hadn’t brought those constructs up to shield himself, then that can only mean…

He glances off to the side at Sans.

The short skeleton very resolutely avoids making eye-contact with him, staring instead at Undyne with a remarkable amount of concentration. As if he can tell that Papyrus is watching him, Sans sinks into his jacket and his face becomes obscured from view by the fluff around his hood. Papyrus smiles; bright and wide and genuine.

He turns back to Undyne, straightens his posture before speaking aloud, “Thank you.”

She raises a brow at him, mistaking herself as the intended recipient of his gratitude, “For what? Kicking your ass back in gear?”

“Something like that.” He allows and, as Sans peeks up at him from the confines of his hood, Papyrus swears he can spot the startled red of a flush on his face.

“You can thank me by finally putting that magic of yours to work.”

Undyne stretches and rolls her shoulders before reassuming her stance. Papyrus darts another glance Sans’ way and sees him eyeing Undyne with a calculated expression. He grins at the sight.

There’s something about that look that leaves him with no doubt that they’re on the same page.

This time, before Undyne can even begin to make her move, Papyrus rushes at her.

She’s immediately taken aback but her instincts are well-honed and she avoids Papyrus before he can even make a decent swing at her. No matter—he tries again, even quicker this time, and she hisses as he almost catches her with a kick to the shins. He holds back a laugh at her frustrated expression.

He’s no fighter but this is, dare he say it, kind of _fun_.

He feels _exhilarated_.

Speed has always been something he’s excelled. He mostly uses it when defending but it’s good to know that it’s no different when he’s on the offensive. He’s _good_ at it, and the bonus seems to be that Undyne is unused to the pace of the fight. Whether it’s his speed or just his sparring style in general that she’s unaccustomed to, he’s not too sure, but he takes full advantage of her slowed reaction time anyways.

All in all, it’s nice to be able to put his talents to use like this.

(Especially when there’s no lingering threat of the decimation of his loved ones if he fucks up.)

He strikes out with a leg and Undyne jumps to evade. In quick succession, he follows up with his arm only to have his hand caught in a tight grip by Undyne. It doesn’t matter though, because he hadn’t been going for a punch.

He’d been aiming.

Undyne’s eye goes wide as she comes to the same realisation and hastily lets go of his hand. She makes to back away. She’s not fast enough.

A rush of bones constructs vault up and Undyne grimaces as they ram into her, knocking her back a few feet. Papyrus doesn’t need to look back to know that Sans’ eye must be glowing the unfamiliar red. He smiles to himself at the thought.

Undyne remains none the wiser, eye focused only on him as she snarls in contempt.

Papyrus feels a surge of accomplishment. That had worked out exceptionally well. There’d been no verbal communication between them but Sans had seen the way he’d moved as if to invoke an attack and had followed through with his own magic. He wants to turn around—wants to grin at Sans and revel in their fantastic teamwork—but it’s too early. He can’t risk taking his eyes off of Undyne quite yet. Besides that, he doesn’t want to take the chance in exposing Sans either.

Who knew what Undyne would do if she discovered he was helping him.

(And, _holy shit_ , isn’t that something? Sans is _helping_ him.

It’s…

… _probably_ because he doesn’t want his brother’s body getting hurt but.

Still.)

Running on the burst of confidence the successful hit affords him, Papyrus lunges towards Undyne again as she recovers. He waves his hand and there’s another surge of bones lancing at her. It’s not perfect—there’s a delay between when he ‘calls’ on the attack and when Sans delivers—but it’s a good bit better than just staying on the defensive the whole time.

(Plus, it’s kind of funny watching Undyne tense up when he raises his hand, then slump in confusion when nothing happens, only to tense up once more when the attack finally _does_ come.

Heh.)

“Are you fucking _laughing_?” Undyne is thunderous, eye narrowing angrily.

The grin slips off his face, “Not at all. Just, uh… just enjoying the fight, Captain.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Papyrus,” He doesn’t know how to place the look on her face. She seems equal parts furious and proud, “You think you’ve got me beat, huh?”

“Err…”

There’s the slow spread of her smile again, pointed teeth glinting with refracted light, “Shows what you know, shark bait.”

Undyne comes at him with renewed vigor, charging with a yell.

All at once, he’s on the defensive again, jumping back away from her strikes with the sort of wild desperation that only comes from being at 1 HP. It’s clear to him now that she was holding back earlier, likely on account of his perceived refusal to fight back. With them on equal footing now, there’s no reason for her to try and pull her punches. This makes it considerably more difficult for him to dodge and he can feel a sweat start to break out over him as each hit gets progressively closer to landing. The one saving grace however, is that, this time, whenever an attack comes way too close, there’s a line of bones that solidify just in time to block him off from the assault.

He flashes a grateful look Sans’ way when he thinks Undyne won’t notice but the small skeleton isn’t facing him so he misses it.

“You don’t have time to be looking around, Lieutenant!”

(Shit. Right.)

He turns around just in time to see the spear Undyne has shot his way. He averts it in a rush, soul thumping in his chest. The relief is only momentary, however, as the next second Papyrus feels an eerily familiar tugging on his soul.

He tries to move to the side and immediately finds that he can’t.

His feet are planted where he stands.

The fact that he can still twist his torso around and move his arms is a bit of a reassurance, though he can feel the sick build of apprehension roiling in his marrow already. He steadies himself, stares Undyne down from the distance between them. She seems to be waiting for confirmation so he nods at her to show that he’s ready.

She grins, “Let’s see how well you hold your ground.”

A glistening of magic glows all around them and, suddenly, several spears line up in his sight. Undyne flicks her wrist and the weapons begin their siege on him. Three spears come at him from the front but not all at once. They file down at him, one by one, and they’re slow enough that Papyrus can dodge them with ease. He frowns at the simplicity, casts a wondering look Undyne’s way, but her expression remains unchanging.

She sends in the second assault and it’s only the slightest bit faster. They come from multiple directions this time but the pattern is uncomplicated and Papyrus dodges two from the front without trouble before leaning back and forth to avoid the pairs on his left and right. Still Undyne looks unfazed.

(Is this… supposed to be her way of warming him up?)

The next line of attacks is measurably faster. There’s no immediately discernible pattern either. Papyrus dodges back and forth for the attacks coming at his sides, eyes flicking quick and steady to make sure he’s not missing another oncoming hit. There’s a brief lull where he expects another spear but, when nothing comes, his posture relaxes.

Undyne smiles.

There’s a flash of light from right behind him and Papyrus feels his soul sink.

He curses and makes to turn around. The chances of evasion this late are low but a red burst of magic saves him the trouble and Papyrus hears the smack of a spear against solid bone. He eyes the make-shift shield thankfully but a frustrated huff of breath from Undyne calls his attention away before he can enjoy the respite.

“Why do you keep flip-flopping between using magic and not?” She scolds, “Choose one and stick with it. Either go all the way with your bone-shields or utilise your evasion to it’s highest potential. That’s the only way you’ll maximize the amount of training you get with either option.”

(Easy for her to say when _she’s_ not the one staring potential dismemberment in the face.)

He hesitates, flicks his gaze back Sans’ way before turning back to her with a simple nod, “No magic then.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Sans tense up at that. There’s no use in pissing Undyne off though, so they might as well listen to her. Besides, he’s got the hang of this now. If all that’s gonna happen is an increase in speed and a switch up in direction from time to time, he thinks he can manage.

“Good!” She rolls her shoulders, “So let’s get serious!”

She barely gives him time to get into stance. Her arrowed magic comes bolting at him from every side and he twists and turns to stay out of their range. The speed has picked up considerably by now and each spear-tip glints sharp and pointed as it passes him by. Undyne smiles at him, slow and menacing.

(It’s the kind of look that promises bad times.

He would know; he’s intimately familiar with that expression after all.)  

The assault continues, progressively getting faster and faster and Papyrus can feel the rhythmic pounding of his soul against his ribs as he pushes himself to keep up. It’s not terrible—it’s difficult, to be certain, but it’s not beyond his abilities. He swerves and ducks and dodges like lightning, Undyne’s spears whizzing past him in a blur of bright magic.

The pace is quick but he’s quicker. He keeps his thoughts steady, repeats the directions in his mind as he evades to keep things orderly.

(Up, up, right, down, right, left, down, left, right, down, right, right—)

“—Left!” He gasps aloud as a larger spear comes sailing in from the side and he only just manages to duck under it.

Undyne cackles as he stumbles in place. He glowers up at her with an irritation that, for once, he doesn’t have to fake. She simply smirks back at him, raises her arm up for another volley of spears.

He’s still a little dazed from that last barrage but he manages to stay on his toes for attacks coming at him, sweeping out of their way with as much finesse as he can manage in such an exhausted state. But that’s just the thing—he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up. It certainly doesn’t seem like _Undyne_ is tiring.

Maybe she notices though, because the next strike she sends his way is just a touch slower and he breathes easy as it comes.

The pattern is predictable too.

(Right, left, right, left.

It’s repetitive. Simple.)

He’s a little thrown-off by this strange show of mercy, but he’s not about to turn down a chance for reprieve so he continues to dodge, easy and slow.

(Right, left, right, left,

right, left, right, left,

ri… ght?)

The last attack goes sailing over his head and Papyrus looks up at it as it passes in confusion.

(Huh.

… did Undyne miss?)

He shrugs it off—even great warrior can make mistakes—and turns back to face the Captain.

Only.

She… doesn’t seem to be setting up another attack?

A spear lances straight through his left shoulder and the pain is sudden and overwhelming, almost too sharp to even process. His vision blacks out in front of him for a moment before reappearing, spotty and hazed.

(How did—

What—)

— _the fuck?! That’s **cheating**!” he screeches but Undyne just rolls her eyes. “You can’t expect a **human** to play fair, can you!” She scoffs, and Papyrus grits his teeth to keep from saying something he’ll regret, “Besides, you have to be prepared for **anything**! How can you expect to make the guard if you can’t even handle **this**?” Papyrus doesn’t answer her, stomps the shimmering arrow under his heel instead. Undyne continues, “ **Calm down**. It’s not like you’ll ever make the same mistake twice_ —

His eyes widen in sudden clarity.

(The attack.

It switched direction.)

( _Fuck_.)

Through the pain, all he can register is an expanse of stone in front of him. He wonders, sluggish and leaden, where Sans and Undyne have gone.

(Is he dead?

He _should_ be dead, shouldn’t he?

It was a direct hit after all.)

(… maybe that’s why there’s no one else in sight.)

“Papyrus!” As if in answer, he hears Sans shout from a distance, panicked—

— _because he’s bleeding and he’s scrambling home, defeated and angry, and he had **promised**. He promised that he wasn’t going to do any training today but **Undyne** was practicing and if he doesn’t practice at **least** as much as her, he’s going to fall behind. Why can’t Sans see that? Why can’t he just **understand** that this is **important**_ —

—and it’s only then that he realises he can’t see them anymore because he’s laying on his back, sockets staring up at the cavernous ceiling. His head is pounding, swirling with flashes and glimpses of things he can’t quite catch in time and can’t stop or slow for respite. Memories keep hitting him all at once and he struggles to keep them from bursting in like a flood while he’s at his weakest.

Maybe it’s for the best that he’s laying down now—standing seems impossible to even imagine.

“What happened?” Undyne’s voice comes bewildered, as if this is the first time she’s ever seen Papyrus take a hit quite like this.

(For all he knows, it might be.)

“Maybe you should tell me!” Sans snarls at her, face turned in her direction even as he falls to his knees at Papyrus’s side, “What the fuck did you _do_?!”

“ _Me_?! We’ve done this maneuver a hundred—”

— _Undyne’s taunting him but Papyrus knows better than to fall for her attempts at hounding him. She’s trying to push him into another one of her stupid little engagements and he **refuses** to be cowed. He’s **better** than that and he knows her game by now. She may have him beat in terms of brawn but he’d like to think he more than makes up for it with a **gift** for strategy she can’t hope to ever match_—

“—times!”

“Spare me your excuses.” Sans is scathing, venom dripping from every word as his hands reach out towards Papyrus’s shoulder.

(Shit, he sounds really pissed off.)

At the slightest brush of his touch against the injured area, the pain increases insurmountably. His vision blacks again and Papyrus is overcome with the vestigial need to gasp in air. He tries to breathe, except the lungless inhalation gets stuck between his ribs and comes out mangled and groaned instead, sickly even to his own hearing.

He feels himself get checked.

Sans’ hands freeze where they lay along his bones. He doesn’t say a word.

Undyne moves in closer, “What’s wrong?”

“It… doesn’t make any sense…”

“The hell are you talking about?”

Sans doesn’t answer her, turns instead to stare at Papyrus intently, his face a canvas of total confusion. His eyes peer down at him as if searching for some sort of hidden answer to the sudden puzzle he’s been faced with. Papyrus wants to ask what has him so wound-up but it’s taking all his effort just to stay conscious.

Undyne frowns and Papyrus feels himself being checked a second time.

“What the fuck?!” Undyne bellows and the sheer volume of it sets his bones rattling, “What happened to his HP?!”

“I don’t know.” Sans gaze flickers back at her, annoyance flashing in his eyelights, but it’s clear that this development is just as shocking to him.

(And, oh.

Is _that_ what he was so mystified by?

Huh.)

(… did that mean this universe’s Papyrus had a higher amount of HP than him?

Was it something he’d strengthened upon gaining LOVE?)

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“Did I fucking _stutter_?” Sans growls, “It means that _I don’t know_.”

Undyne grits her teeth and, from his position on the ground, Papyrus gets an exceptional view of her fists clenching angrily as she physically restrains herself from lashing out, “You’re his brother, aren’t you? If he’s sick or something, shouldn’t you have noticed?”

“He’s not sick.” Sans says dismissively, “Boss hasn’t gotten sick since he was a kid—”

— _he’s going to throw up. He can feel the waste magic building and he doesn’t **want** to, he hates it, he **hates** being so **weak**. “Shh,” Sans soothes, running a careful hand up and down the back of his spine, “It’s fine, Pap. It’s gonna be okay.” He wants to cry, wants his brother to hold him, wants to be **better** already so he can go outside and not be **stuck** in the kitchen vomiting his lunch into the sink_ —

“—besides, what kind of fucking illness would take down your max HP?”

It’s clear from her expression that Undyne doesn’t place much confidence in what Sans thinks, “Whatever. I’m calling Alphys.”

“ _Alphys_? What do you think _she’s_ gonna be able to do here?”

“She’s a doctor—”

“She’s not _that_ kind of doctor, fish-breath.”

“I _know_ that, asshole! But if she can create a robot with a soul, then clearly she’s got some sort of fucking handle on biology!” Undyne seems verging on furious now but Sans only looks back at her decidedly unimpressed. Papyrus almost wants to step in despite the constant aching of his body; he doesn’t need another memory to know that an upset Undyne is not one you’d ever want to deal with. The monster in question continues on, glaring down at Sans all the while, “She’s supposed to be on her way here anyways and, let’s face it, she’s definitely a lot more useful than _you_ no matter _what_ the situation!”

Sans’ eyes flash, and Papyrus can see the stirrings of something dangerous in the shift of his posture, “Listen, sweetheart—”

“Captain,” He gurgles, wincing as the simple motion of opening his mouth sets his bones aching anew. But speaking up fulfilled it’s intended purpose—immediately, the brewing tension between Sans and Undyne falls away as they both snap their attention to his prone form instead. He thinks fast against the churning in his head, trying to figure a way out of this mess that doesn’t end in bloodshed and violence, “This… this is actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Sans shoots him an alarmed look but Papyrus ignores it. There’s no way for him to reassure the anxious skeleton without alerting Undyne. His questions will have to wait.

(Besides, would it kill him to have a little more faith in his abilities?)

 _“ **Trust** me, Sans.” He says and his brother still looks somewhat hesitant. He tries not to let that get to him, tries not to let it **burn** at him like it always does, but it’s just so **infuriating**. He tenses his body, restrains himself. He gives Sans time to decide and is rewarded for his **patience** with a slight nod. “ **Okay** , boss_—

He shakes the memory away. Focuses his thought as best he can and blockades the fragments of his alternate’s past from infiltrating his mind.

“I’m not sick,” he continues, nodding a little Sans’ way to show support for his ‘brother’s’ assessment, “But… this development is certainly not ideal.”

Undyne frowns a little before crouching to get closer to him, “How did this happen, Papyrus?”

“I… don’t know. I just woke up one day and… it was like this.”

(The best lies always had a sliver of truth to them, right?

And, well. That was pretty close, honestly.)

She’s scowling pretty heavily now, clearly not satisfied with his answer. He needs to press on before her unease gives way to full-blown suspicion. He levels his voice against the pain, steels it to be professional and tempers it with respect just as he remembers from his alternate’s memories, “Once I discovered this malady, I knew that I needed to report to you immediately. There’s no use in keeping me on when I’m like this after all.”

Sans visibly stiffens where he’s sitting, his phalanges gripping into him unconsciously. There’s nothing Papyrus can do for him right now though. Between the numbing pulses of pain that threaten to send him spiraling into darkness and keeping a steady, coherent conversation, he kind of has his hands full.

Undyne looks perturbed—at least underneath the several ever-present layers of irritation across her face, “What are you saying? You think this is going to be permanent??”

(Holy fuck, _god no_.

 ** _Please_** no.)

“Uh, no. Nothing so drastic, I should think,” And, though he doesn’t really care too much about messing up the life of his counterpart, he has to think about what it would mean for Sans if his brother suddenly got kicked out of the guard. Papyrus can’t risk Sans suffering at his brother’s hands when he leaves just because he took petty shots at the guy’s career. So he takes a second to gather his thoughts instead, winces against the aching in his bones as he speaks again, “I’m simply… making a formal request for time off from my duties as part of the Royal Guard. At least until such a time as where I may, once again, be able to fulfill them to the best of my abilities.”

(There. That sounded sufficiently formal, right?

He was getting better at this imitation gig—it was all pompous and weirdly phrased and everything.)

Undyne stares at him sternly for a second before her face breaks out into a smile, “Shit, is that it? You just wanted to take some time off?”

Papyrus nods at her as best he can from his position and he feels Sans relax beside him.

Undyne just laughs, “Fuck, for a second there, I thought you were quitting on me!”

He tries to laughs alongside her but, now that the adrenaline from the fight and subsequent deception is wearing off, the pain is starting to hit him harder that ever. At this point, he doesn’t even know how much longer he’ll be able to keep his eyes open. Already his sockets are lidding, as if the effort to stay conscious is simply too much. He needs healing, preferably _now_ if it was all the same to everyone else.

Unfortunately, Undyne still has some questions for him, “If you wanted a vacation you could’ve just told me over the phone, Paps. Why come all the way here?”

“Err,” He blinks, eyes shifting to Sans for a second as he recalls their earlier conversation, “It was unprecedented behaviour from me so… I suppose I just didn’t want to give you any cause for alarm.”

“Didn’t really succeed there, did you?” She’s scowling again and Papyrus briefly wonders if she has any expressions other than a wide array of disgruntlement and frightening smiles, “… you seriously don’t know what caused the HP cut?”

He shakes his head, “My apologies, Captain.”

“You… don’t seem very worried about it.”

(He’d lived for longer than he could remember with only 1 HP.

Honestly, it was _more_ worrying to him that apparently low HP was _not_ the standard for alternate. Sans had been downright _shocked_ upon seeing his health. Which…

Actually, come to think of it, why was he not dead again?

How much HP was he sitting at right now?)

He feigns nonchalance, “Seems like a waste to spend time mourning over something I can’t change. There’s not much I can do but hope it’ll go back to normal soon.”

“Hmm,” Undyne purses her lips but doesn’t comment on it any further, “Well, you’ve definitely managed to save up some downtime so don’t worry about taking time off. It should be fine.”

“Thank you.” He manages, sincere.

Undyne is still staring at him like she wants to say something. It’s giving a Papyrus an awful sense of foreboding that he would rather not deal with. Especially considering how completely worn-out he’s feeling right now. In fact, more than worn-out, he’d actually feeling mostly light-headed. Like a strong breeze could knock him over if it was particularly determined.

In any case, he doesn’t think he could hold up to the sort of interrogation Undyne’s eyes are suggesting.

Luckily, Sans slaps his hands together and redirects Undyne’s attention towards himself, “Great! Now that this shitshow’s over with, I should get the boss home for some rest.”

“ _You?_ ” Undyne scoffs, “And how exactly are you gonna manage that, short stuff?”

Sans gives her a disparaging grin, “Well, ya see, Captain. There’re these nifty things called _arms_ which—oh hey, actually, that reminds me! Did I ever tell you that one knock-knock joke? About little Suzy?”

Whether he has or not, Undyne clearly doesn’t want to hear it, “Ughhh, you are **_insufferable_**.”

“I’d like to think that it’s just part of my overall ch _arm_.”

Papyrus drowsily looks up at that, not entirely sure if he misheard, “Was that… a pun?”

“Depends, boss,” Sans winks at him, though he has a feeling it’s more out of reflex than any true sense of comradery, “Are you gonna _pun_ ish me if it was?”

And, at that, Papyrus starts _wheezing_ with laughter.

The entire thing is actually kind of painful, jostling his bones and agitating his injury, but he’s never been able to resist a good pun. And to have one come from the most unexpected of places—from someone who is essentially his no-nonsense, always-groaning-at-his-antics little brother—is _hilarious_ is a way he can’t explain. He keeps laughing, tears gathering in the corners of his sockets.

Sans and Undyne both instantly fall silent, staring at him openly. They exchange worried glances with each other but it only makes Papyrus chuckle harder. After all that arguing, it’s just funny to him that the one thing they’d bond over would be shock at Papyrus’s appreciation of puns.

(That light-headed feeling is more pronounced than ever but, somehow, it’s getting easier to ignore.)

Someone checks him.

“Shit,” Sans breathes, and Papyrus guesses that means that it must’ve been him, “Okay, we need to get some food in him, stat.”

Maybe it’s because Sans included her with the ‘we’ but she’s actually looking at him with something other than utter contempt on her face. Papyrus is a little dazed to see it, though it’s possible that it’s just the creeping numbness settling over his bones talking. Either way, he’s not laughing any more. He’s too tired for that.

Too tired for anything at this point really.

Undyne speaks and it sounds like she’s standing miles away even though he can see her right beside him, “I should have some stuff in the fridge. What’s the situation exactly?”

“His remaining HP keeps dropping. It’s at one now—going into the decimals by the looks of it. It’s slow, so we still have a good bit of time but…”

“You’d rather not risk taking him home first,” Undyne nods in agreement, “Alright, I’ll go get the food and the first aid then. You good for temporary healing?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.” There’s an immediate warmth of soothing magic by his shoulder and it makes him instinctively groan in relief. When there’s no visual to back up that feeling, he realises with a start that his eyes are closed.

(When had he closed them?)

“You alright?” Sans says to him as soon as Undyne’s footsteps peter off, and his voice is gentler than Papyrus thought he was capable of.

All he can manage is a small noise of accession in response though, the healing making him feel inordinately sleepy.

“That was, uh… that was some pretty quick thinking there,” Sans says. Papyrus still doesn’t feel up to speaking, so he slits open his eyes and directs a questioning look Sans’ way instead. The red-eyed skeleton clarifies, “The way you turned the situation around, I mean. You managed to change a panic about the disparity in your HP into an explanation for why you were here _and_ an opening to ask for time off. So, you know, uh… good job. It was a smart move.”

Not quite an ‘I’m sorry I underestimated you.’ but Papyrus takes the praise for what it is. He grins. It actually kinda makes him feel like maybe he’s made more progress with Sans than he’d thought.

He’s still tired as hell, but he thinks this is definitely a situation that calls for some heartfelt gratitude.

“Thanks,” He garbles, words mangled from magical sedation, “You were great too.”

Sans snorts, incredulous, “What did _I_ do?”

“You kiddin’ me? You were so _good_ with those attacks. And the defense as well, come to think of it,” It’s frustrating because there’s a lot more that he wants to say about it, but his head is fuzzy and he can’t seem to find the right words. He wants to be more articulate—wants to thank Sans properly for his help—but the deep-set weariness in his body is almost overwhelming. He settles for a hapless shrug, “We make a good team.”

Sans doesn’t respond to that but there’s a warm pulse in his magic at his shoulder. Papyrus takes that as agreement—or at least acceptance—and closes his eyes with a smile. They fall into a comfortable silence.

By the time Undyne’s footsteps march back his way, he’s already drifting off into an easy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fighting/action scenes are so tiring to write oh my god?????? major props to the people who do them well b/c holy crap that took a lot out of me ////rip
> 
> also, just to clarify in case it wasn't obvious, paps is fine. B') ~~(and he's garnered a little of sans' respect so HOORAY FOR THAT!!!!! ////fistpump)~~
> 
> also, also: gonna be out of town for a bit so you might not hear from me for a week-ish,,!
> 
>  **EDIT** Ah, I just realised I never explained the little Suzy thing!! It was basically just me making a reference to that one joke people always associate with UF!Sans. If you haven't heard it already, it basically goes like this:
> 
> Why did little Suzy fall off the swingset?  
>  _Because she had no arms._
> 
> And then followed up with:
> 
> Knock knock.  
>  **Who's there?**  
>  Not little Suzy!
> 
> Hence the arm puns lmfao


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while,,!!!! to make up for it, this chapter is the average length of _two_ chapters! B') hooray for more reading!!
> 
> ALSO!!!!!!!!  
> Eunoria drew a mini-comic of a scene from last chapter and it's??? so gorgeous??!!!! Please feast your eyeballs on it [here](http://eunoriablithe.tumblr.com/post/150889968324/heh-this-took-forever-cant-wait-for-that-new)!

This time, he doesn’t dream.

There are no visions of the past to plague his thoughts, no glimpses into his alternate’s life that make him wonder at how someone sharing his essence could be so vile.

Instead he drifts in and out of consciousness, warmth all around him with the glow of healing magic coursing through his bones. It’s nice; the pain has died down from excruciating to only mildly aching. There’s a good chance it’ll hurt more once he’s fully awake and aware but, for now, he’s content to enjoy this.

… or so he intends.

But, even as he tries to force himself to ignore it, a light, tickling itch along his leg begs his attention.

Sockets still firmly squeezed shut and determined to fall right back into blissful unawareness right after this is done, he squirms around where he lies, reaching down with one hand towards his leg bones. It’s harder than he expects. As he struggles to close the distance and scratch at the sensation, he becomes alert enough to feel the weight of something soft and warm on top of him which he registers as a blanket of some sort. He’s also on a mattress now, he notes, twisting and turning where he lies, sheets bunching up underneath his bent form.

Still, he refuses to open his eyes.

(He’s going to _sleep_ damn it.

He’s gone long enough without getting any decent, drama-free rest around here.)

He stretches his arm further still, contorting his body. He’s getting increasingly tangled up in the sheets as he inches forward, but his phalanges are almost in reach of the lower part of his tibia that’s bothering him. He makes one last valiant push towards the itch.

Papyrus falls off the bed.

“Wow,” he hears a snicker from somewhere above and in front of him, “Now _that’s_ a maneuver I’d like to see you repeat.”

He groans in embarrassment, recognising Sans’ low laughter, “How long were you watching?”

“Pretty much the whole time.” His tone is light, almost playful.

Papyrus kind of wants to follow up with a joking response along the lines of, ‘Watching me sleep? Didn’t peg you as the creepy type.’ but he doubts that they’re friendly enough for that sort of banter quite yet. It… actually sort of leaves him stumped for conversation, seeing as humour is usually his go-to response. He straightens up off the floor quietly, getting up and taking a seat at the edge of the mattress.

Luckily, Sans continues before the silence can become awkward, “How’re you feeling?”

The way he asks is a little stilted, like he’s not used to asking the question.

“Fine. Kinda sore, I guess.” Papyrus offers, rubbing at his humerus while taking a good look at his surroundings. It’s clear that they’re no longer in Waterfall. Instead, he’s back in his counterpart’s bedroom, observing the tidy space and empty walls with familiarity.

“I brought you back before Alphys got there,” Sans explains as Papyrus looks back at him, “It would’ve been a pain if she started examining you or something.”

He nods. If Alphys is as devoted to her science as the Alphys he knows back home is to her guard duties, that could’ve ended badly, “Makes sense. Keeping our vulnerabilities under wraps is probably for the best.”

Sans stares at him at that, gaze piercing in its intensity. Papyrus startles a little but he keeps eye contact, unblinking as his brother’s copy studies him. He’s searching for some sort of insight into things, that much is clear, but Papyrus has nothing to offer him that he hasn’t already.

(Well.

Not anything he _wants_ to share in any case.)

Sans moves up from where he’s leaning against the wall in front of him, “Speaking of uh… _vulnerability_ … mind explaining what’s up with that HP of yours?”

“Oh,” He knows it’s not really a conversation they can avoid, but he can’t help but feel that they should. He finds that the more he tells this Sans, the more truthful he has to be and, much like with his own brother, he’d rather spare him the awful details. The guy has a bad enough life without existential apathy to add to it. Nevertheless, he sighs and relents, “Can I… ask what my stats were when you checked?”

“Don’t know how far above the cap it was when you got hit, but your max HP is 4.”

Papyrus blinks up at him, “And… that is…?”

“Low,” Sans states, grim, “Incredibly low.”

“That’s, uhh…” Four times his usual stat and somehow that’s still low. He doesn’t know how to process that information. Especially considering that it’s likely the only reason he’s still alive right now, “So… you’re saying your brother’s HP is usually a lot higher than that?”

“Is _yours_ usually even _lower_?”

Papyrus laughs at the way Sans gawks at him, but somehow it comes out about as awkward and uncomfortable as he feels, “Actually I, uh… I’ve got kind of a 1 HP deal going on with me.”

Something stirs in the thoughts behind Sans’ eyes, “Yeah…? And… how long has it been like that?”

“That’s a bit of a tough question,” Papyrus rubs at the back of his skull, feeling weirdly self-conscious, “I guess I’d say pretty much as far back as I can remember? It’s… a little hazy for the earlier days but… in the end, it doesn’t really matter. I’m used to it. There’s nothing worth complaining about.”

There’s a lull in the conversation but Papyrus can’t say any more about it than that. After all, what can he say when he doesn’t even know if the snippets of cold, tiled floors and glistening lab equipment that supplement his nightmares back home are even real or just the products of his distressed imagination. Even before he arrived here he got little enough sleep as it was. So, whenever he woke up panting from some contrived mental turmoil, he didn’t try to analyse or dwell on it. He preferred to focus on happier things.

(He didn’t need any new horrors to add to his list.)

“Check me.”

Papyrus refocuses at the sounds of Sans’ voice, “What?”

“Check me.” Sans repeats before holding his arms out at his sides as if to show that he means no harm.

He’s not sure what good it’ll do but his questioning glance is met with silence on Sans’s part. He gives in with a sigh.

“Alright, sure, but—”

*SANS – LV 6 – 1 HP  
*Watch out.

Papyrus blanches.

Though Sans’ HP is jarring in and of itself and is clearly what Sans had intended to share, it’s not just _that_ that gets to him. It’s _everything._ From Sans’ constitution, to his level, to the subtle warning his soul is projecting at all times. The information reads bleak and cold and he doesn’t know which part of this reveal makes him feel sicker. Papyrus can’t help but think to his brother’s smiling face and wonder where this Sans went so wrong.

“We seem to be operating under… different assumptions here.”

Papyrus stares as Sans speaks, not really paying attention as he tries to keep himself from jumping to conclusions about the other skeleton’s LV. His mind’s a mess as he thinks about what would lead someone who is essentially his kind and just younger brother to kill another creature. Sans would never do something like that. He just _wouldn’t_.

So what is it that makes this version of him so… _different_.

There’s a part of him that’s instantly repelled by the reveal but, a separate, stronger part of him—the one that’s been here long enough to start to understand that this Sans _isn’t_ the brother he knows—sees that he’s not being fair. Despite the way his feelings about it keep flip-flopping around, what’s fact is fact; this Sans isn’t _his_ Sans. He’s likely had to deal with situations that even Papyrus has never had to face before.

He has no right to judge him.

(No matter how much the idea of Sans having dusted someone makes him queasy.)

Besides all that though, Papyrus has had enough of making assumptions and then feeling like a fool when he’s completely off-base. He’s seen more than enough to understand that things here aren’t at all like they are at home. As such, his ideas on morality are nothing but a hindrance when what he _needs_ is to focus on the bigger picture.

And it’s not as if this Sans has the look of a cold-blooded killer either. He may still not know the skeleton very well but he can’t see the monster ever harming someone just for the sake of it. Something in him assures it.

The least Papyrus can do is give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I think that maybe you and I have a lot more in common than either of us originally thought.” Papyrus snaps back to the moment at the sound of Sans’ voice. The reserved skeleton watches him closely for a moment before sighing and un-slumping from where he’s leaning against the wall. Papyrus sees a conflicted look on his face come and go. When he speaks up again it’s nowhere to be seen; he looks straight into Papyrus’s eyes, gaze steely and clear.

Somehow, even after everything that’s happened since he fiddled with the machine, Papyrus isn’t prepared for what he says next.

“What do you know about resets?”

He feels his soul stutter to a stop in his chest.

(No.

No, there’s _no way…!_ )

He jolts his head up at his brother’s copy, “Who told you…?!”

“So you _do_ know what they are…”

Sans looks at him and the dark discoloration under his sockets seems more pronounced than ever. He looks tired and frustrated, weary with the events of the last few days. Above all though, he looks resigned to his fate.

And Papyrus recognises that expression intimately.

With that, it’s like the pieces of the puzzle finally click into place.

It’s clear to him now; so clear that he doesn’t know how he didn’t piece it together before.

(He’s had some suspicions that things were a little off, but…

… he couldn’t have even _begun_ to imagine _this_.)

He knows that this universe is far different from his own, and in more than just how there seems to be violence creeping in every corner. It’s a world where the buttery, fresh scent of baked goods wafting down the street from Muffet’s is replaced with the bitter bite of alcohol stinging the air. Where Muffet herself doesn’t live in Snowdin at all and an irate bartender he’s only ever heard of by name back home fills her position. It’s a world where even his soft-spoken, nervous wreck of a best friend tips over into anger and hard-lined mercilessness. Where she hangs up her lab coat and picks up a spear instead, leading the Royal Guard with a spark he’d have expected from Alphys.

Everything here is twisted around from what he knows; flipped over and altered and presented as the truth.

It’s not too much of a stretch, then, to think that maybe this universe’s Papyrus knows nothing about the resets.

That maybe, here, that’s Sans’ domain instead.

“You know.” He doesn’t really need to verify it with a question—not when he can read the confirmation in the set of Sans’ face—but his not-brother nods his head anyways.

There’s a moment of silence before Papyrus speaks again. He starts slowly, unused to talking to anyone about it. He lifts his eyes to meet Sans’ properly, “Back home, there’s this… creature.”

“An anomaly,” Sans fills in, “Yeah. We have one of those here too.”

“It has nothing to do with me being here.”

Despite his need to clarify, Sans doesn’t look too surprised, “I figured as much, considering you mentioned a machine ‘n all.”

“You… do have one, yeah? A machine.”

“I do,” Sans confirms, “It’s in the basement.”

For the first time since arriving here, Papyrus feels a true swell of hope blossom in his chest—

“It’s a total piece of shit though. I have no idea how to get it running.”

—only for it to come crashing down seconds later.

(Of course.

Just his fucking luck.)

“But forget that for now,” Sans says, as if it’s something easy; as if Papyrus can just switch off the heavy weight in his soul that only proceeds to get worse the longer he stays here, “Answer a couple questions for me.”

He’s only just been released from blissful unconsciousness but Papyrus feels completely unrested, “What exactly do you want to know?”

“Your universe. Are resets a fairly new thing or…?”

He sighs, runs a hand over his face, “Been happening for a while as far as I can tell. I only know as much as I write down in my journals.”

“Your journals…” Sans gives him a considering look, “Does your brother keep journals about the resets too?”

“ _Sans?_ No, of course not.”

Sans stares at him, expression a mixture of contemplative and something Papyrus can’t quite discern, “Tell me more.”

“About… what?”

“About what exactly your brother knows.”

“He… doesn’t know _anything_ about this,” Papyrus says, though the looks on Sans' face suggests that he’d already pieced together as much, “And to be honest, I’m glad for it. I wouldn’t _want_ him to know.”

“He knows nothing? Not even the slightest clues?”

“As far as I know? No.”

Sans thinks on that for a moment, eyelights flickering before he fixes his face with a frown, “And… what’s that like? For him.”

At the question, Papyrus feels a sudden rush of empathy for the other skeleton. It must seem unbelievable to him that some version of himself exists that doesn’t have to deal with the resets. Papyrus feels the same, relatively speaking, though most of his disbelief is centered around the type of monster his alternate seems to be.

Even so, he’s not sure where to start. His brother is amazing—a force of nature capable of fantastic feats. How can he even come close to explaining someone like that?

“It’s… good,” He starts slowly, testing his words, “He’s a really driven monster, you know? I’m always grateful that he doesn’t have the stress from something like this holding him back.”

And he _is_. Despite how hard it is to keep the knowledge to himself and to deal with everything on his own, Papyrus is certain he’d never have it any other way. If he can spare his brother the torment, that’s worth any number of sleepless nights.

“Although, I’m not sure he’d even be _affected_ by the idea of resets to be honest,” Papyrus laughs a little, shaking his head, “Sans is the kind of monster that would probably power through it all with sheer force of will if it came down to it.”

His words alone don’t do Sans justice.

Even when he’d first asked Alphys to be allowed to join the Royal Guard and been turned down, he didn’t let that stop him. He’d gone back to meet her, every night for a week, till she agreed to train him. Since then he hadn’t missed a session with her either, always early to leave and late to come back.

(His brother is so _cool_.)

It feels good to be talking about Sans like this. It makes him feel less distant somehow, like his brother is right there beside him. It also reminds him that his brother is capable of holding his own.

(No matter _how_ difficult the situation.)

It’s reassuring.

“That’s how he solves most problems, really. Hell, that’s how he got _me_ off _my_ ass and properly working,” He reminisces, “I don’t know where I’d be without him.”

“Heh…” Papyrus looks up to see Sans with a fond smile on his face, eyelights soft and expression surprisingly gentle, “He sounds a lot like _my_ brother…”

Papyrus stills.

He knows that Sans doesn’t mean anything insulting by it, but the words make him instinctively bristle anyway. The comparison rubs him the wrong way, sharp memories of just what this universe’s Papyrus is like rising like bile at the back of his ephemeral throat. He refuses to stand by and let his brother’s character be dragged through the mud.

“Sans is _nothing_ like your brother.” He spits the words before he catches himself.

There’s far more venom in his phrasing than he intends but it seems like he doesn’t need to worry about overstepping. Sans doesn’t appear offended by it. He doesn’t get angry at all, only gives him a look; thoughtful and quiet.

“What did you mean last night?” He says, seemingly apropos of nothing. At Papyrus’s look of confusion, he clarifies, “When you said that my brother hurts me all the time.”

He doesn’t see how his words could be taken at anything other than face value, “I meant exactly what I said.”

“But… what makes you think that he does?” Sans frowns, and Papyrus feels a sense of foreboding fall over him, “You’ve never even _met_ my brother.”

Papyrus stiffens where he sits.

( _Shit_.)

“Did someone say something to you about it?” And there’s that anger Papyrus had been expecting; his words come growled, something low and threatening in their tone. He sounds dangerous. Like this hypothetical someone is about to get their face smashed in for even _daring_ to talk smack about his brother.

But there’s no way he can be honest with Sans about how he knows.

('Hi, yeah, I’ve been seeing glimpses of your past together through your brother’s memories?

 _Preeetty_ sure I saw you two fucking at one point.')

('Whoops, my bad, dude.')

It’s an invasion of privacy, clear and simple, and he’s not looking forward to having a confrontation with the stocky skeleton about it. Not now, at least. It’s not even all that important in the grand scheme of things, so why bother bringing it up? Papyrus can handle this on his own.

(One of them dealing with the embarrassment is more than enough.)

“No one said anything to me,” He says instead, “It’s pretty obvious just from being around you.”

Sans doesn’t look convinced, “The fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I’ve said it before. You’re completely different around your brother. You stutter, you flinch—you act like you’re afraid of making any missteps in front of him. What does that mean if not that you’re scared he’ll hurt you for making a mistake?”

Sans looks frustrated by his words but doesn’t make a move to contradict him.

Papyrus barrels on, “It’s not your fault. Your brother’s been treating you like shit and making you feel like you deserve it. He’s a Grade-A asshole.”

“Stop.”

Papyrus does, watches as Sans crosses his arms across his chest and grips tight into his humerus.

“You can say what you want about me but leave my brother out of this.”

Papyrus stares at him, incredulous, “Leave your—? He’s literally the source of all your problems! If it wasn’t for him—”

“If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have even made it this far. Neither of us would have,” Sans is firm, words leaving no room for argument, “It’s thanks to Papyrus taking initiative that no one messes with us anymore.”

“He _abuses_ you.” Papyrus croaks, just the thought of it paining his soul.

Sans waves him off like it’s nothing, “He only does what he has to—”

“No. He doesn’t.” Papyrus interrupts, “Even if he _was_ doing things simply out of ‘concern’, he _still_ wouldn’t have any right to treat you like that.”

At this point, Sans just looks weary with the conversation. Papyrus can relate, “Just what the hell are you trying to say?”

“Your brother doesn’t care about you.”

Silence follows his words and his statement seems to ring in the air before falling, heavy and unyielding, into the tense atmosphere building around them.

“What…?” Sans whispers.

“He doesn’t care about you,” Papyrus repeats, and all his irritation with his alternate comes rushing up out of him, “If he _did_ —if he loved you like he fucking _should_ —he wouldn’t hurt you like he does. He’s unforgivable.”

“ _Fuck you_.”

Papyrus startles. Sans is glaring at him, phalanges now clenched into fists at his side. The amount of hostility being directed at him is possibly more surprising than it should be.

“Just because when _you_ fuck _your_ brother it’s on a bed of god damn _roses_ , doesn’t mean that _my_ brother doesn’t care about _me!_ Don’t compare our relationship to your happy-go-lucky bullshit.”

Sans is radiating animosity and Papyrus tries his best to focus on that over the nauseous feeling his words provoke in him. There’s sparks of red magic flitting over Sans’ closed fists, his sockets guttering out to a deep, dark blackness. Papyrus grits his teeth.

“What gives you the right to decide how my brother does or doesn’t feel about me?! You don’t know _anything_ about us!”

Papyrus resists the urge to argue.

He may not know Sans but he sure as hell knows his alternate. He knows the way his mind works, and not just because he’s seen into it. Because—no matter how sick the thought makes him—Papyrus _is_ him. And there’s no beating that sort of insight.

Still.

He should apologise. He knows that.

“I know enough.” He says instead.

He regrets it instantly.

The room is abruptly awash in red light as magic flares in Sans’ left eye. The boom of his magic rising up is almost audible, the impact of it hitting him like a physical blow. He grips tight into the sheets bunched under him as Sans snarls, taking a heavy, thudding step towards him.

Then, all at once, Sans turns on his heel and starts to walk away.

Papyrus stares at his retreating back in confusion before pushing himself into action, “Sans, wait—”

Sans’ head whips around, eye burning fiercely. Papyrus is immediately halted in place by magic. A strong pressure forces him back into the mattress, weighing heavy against his bones.

“ _Don’t follow me._ ”

And with a flash and a familiar _pop_ , Sans is gone.

As soon as he’s out of sight, the pressure on his body dissipates but Papyrus remains lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Not for the first time since getting here, he wishes he were home. It seems that all that he’s capable of in this universe is fucking up.

He takes a moment to steady himself before getting up out of bed. Sans said not to follow but Papyrus is uneasy about letting the small skeleton wander off like that, as angry as he is. The fight from the other night is still fresh in his mind and he can’t help but think back to how close Sans came to being dusted. He may not be as well-versed in fighting as most monsters in this universe are, but backup is always a useful thing to have.

(And he won’t let Sans get hurt just because he was distracted by something he’d said.)

He makes his way down the stairs slowly, doesn’t teleport because he can feel how paper thin his magic reserves feel right now. He’d used up a lot of energy facing Undyne—it’s best that he keeps any spare magic for an emergency. He walks up to the front door and pulls it open…

… only to blink dazedly at the image in front of him.

There are three dogs standing on the porch, one kneeling on the ground between two that are standing. The dog on the left has their hand raised up as if poised to knock. Papyrus’s gaze flickers down to the insignia across the armour of the two standing. He recognises the emblazoned gold of the Royal Guard instantly.

He gives them another lookover, now recognising their faces somewhat beneath the scars. They resemble a couple he spoke to from time to time back home, though he doesn’t think the Dogamy and Dogaressa he knew were ever the type to join the Royal Guard. It was mainly the bunnies of Snowdin that did that. The dogs were more likely to be seen running the shops or the inns.

The dog on the right salutes, “Sir—”

“—we were looking for you.” Completes the one on the left.

The monster down on their knees between them simply whimpers when Papyrus looks down at them, “What’s… going on?”

Dogaressa salutes next, “We heard that this pup attacked you and yours last night, Boss.”

With a start, Papyrus looks back down at the monster at his feet. The dog recoils as their eyes meet and Papyrus quickly sees the missing arm. It _is_ him. It’s the monster that attacked Sans in the woods. He _survived_.

His soul starts to pound as he considers what this means.

What have they come here for exactly? Do they want revenge for the injury Papyrus has given him? Worse—do they want him to finish the monster off? He won’t be able to do it if they ask.

He _can’t_.

Papyrus feels a clenching of fear deep in his bones. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do and Sans isn’t here to walk him through it.

His soul pounds harder still.

The dog couple bows.

“Thank you.” They say in unison.

Papyrus stares.

“It is truly a mark of your greatness that you spared him.”

“I _didn’t_ spare him.” Papyrus blurts, the absurdity of the situation pulling dangerous honesty from between his teeth.

“You didn’t finish him off,” Dogamy tilts his head at him, “Instead you left him to the woods.”

“That’s as good as letting him go,” Dogaressa rumbles, bowing even more deeply, “We are forever indebted to you.”

He pointedly avoids answering, doesn’t mention that the only reason the dog is alive now is because Sans thought he wouldn’t make it through the night in his condition.

“Why bother coming to me?” He asks instead.

“To get the pup to apologise—

“—for damaging what’s yours.”

Yet another sentiment that grates against his soul

Pap feels the need to protest, to explain that Sans isn’t _his_. Sans is Sans and no monster ever _belongs_ to anyone. But. He gets the feeling that the dogs wouldn’t understand that. It’d probably just be a waste of time to explain.

He doesn’t fight the claim.

Dogamy nudges the monster with his foot and the dog apologises, sputtering and crying as he does so. The sight of it doesn’t sit well with Papyrus but he’s not in a position to change what’s happening. He simply listens to the wet pleas and admissions of guilt with a face as passive as he can keep it.

Once he’s done, Papyrus drags his gaze back up to the couple, “Why do you care so much that I let him go?”

The dogs stare at him, as if baffled that he even needs to ask.

“For the same reason that you keep your brother on such a tight leash—”

“—he’s family.”

Papyrus feels a pang of something awful in his soul at that.

This whole universe’s idea of family is twisted in a way that doesn’t mesh with him at all. Is he really supposed to believe that he’s misjudged his alternate? That his counterpart really _does_ care about Sans despite the way he treats him? That doesn’t explain all the memories Papyrus has seen where the greatest threat to Sans well-being was his doppelganger himself. Not to mention the way Sans is always so cautious and hesitant around him.

He can’t reconcile the disparity between the two things; doesn’t think it’s right for his alternate to act so horribly to his own family and deem it necessary. But, at the same time, he’s starting to see that maybe that’s just how things work here. And maybe he really _does_ need to apologise to Sans about how he’s been behaving.

(Even _if_ he hates everything this fucked up place stands for.)

He dismisses the dogs without much flourish and they leave easily, assuring that they will do whatever it takes to repay him for his show of mercy. He almost considers asking them to tail Sans for him but reconsiders at the end. It just doesn’t seem right.

After everything he’s put the guy through, sending guards after him might just send him over the edge.

He resumes searching on his own, a little lost as to where to begin.

(Where could Sans have gone?

Would it be Grillby’s, despite the mess Papyrus had made of it the other day?)

While something in him says that the bar was likely a good place to find Sans on any given day, he feels as if today that’s not the answer. The skeleton had been incredibly upset by the things Papyrus had said… and when Papyrus thinks about where _he_ would go if he got that way…

He looks out into the distance, where the trees of Snowdin Forest rise up high into the cave.

He heads for the Ruins.

It’s just a hunch, based solely on the lingering glance Sans had sent back that way when they’d come to a head with each other in the forest last night, but it’s his only lead. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before he spots the telltale black and red of Sans’s clothing in the distance. As he approaches nearer, he takes care to stay hidden in the trees.

It makes him feel kind of weird to be essentially spying on his brother’s counterpart like this but the alternative is Sans seeing him and teleporting away in anger. He’d rather avoid that if he can.

So he stays out of sight, moving in as carefully as he can. Eventually, he’s near enough to see Sans clearly, leaning against the door with a wide smirk on his face as he animatedly waves his hands around and talks. Papyrus isn’t yet close enough to catch what’s being said but he definitely sees it when Sans’ smile slides off his face. There’s a slow moment as Sans drags a hand down over his face and lowers himself into the snow.

Papyrus moves in closer, gets near enough that he can hear Sans speak.

He finds that it’s even _more_ uncomfortable to be eavesdropping on what is a private conversation. It prickles at his conscience and a voice disturbingly like his brother’s scolds him in his head before he shakes it away. He reminds himself that he’s only staying near enough to scope out any sort of trouble. He’ll leave if it seems like things are under control.

“I know, but it’s not what you think,” He hears Sans sigh and already he sounds a lot more at ease than he had back at the house, “It’s not his fault.”

Papyrus can’t hear what the monster on the other side of the door says but Sans flinches in response, “Can we—can we maybe not do this today? I’m just not in the mood to argue with you about it.”

He finds himself wondering briefly who the monster on the other side of the door might be. He’s fairly certain it’s not Asgore; can’t be with the way this universe seems to flip all it’s roles.

(Maybe he should start calling this place Flipverse to differentiate it from his own.

… or maybe he’d just refer to it as Hellverse. That’d certainly fit just as well.)

(A private part of him snickers at the thought.)

He may not be able to hear the voice from the other side of the door but, with the knowledge he’s gathered on how this place seems to work, he thinks he can make an educated guess as to who it might be.

What the monster replies with must set Sans at ease because he relaxes against the door. He doesn’t say anything as a follow-up which leads Papyrus to believe that the other monster must still be talking. The small skeleton has his head titled towards the door and his eyes cast downwards as he plays absently with the laces of his shoes.

“No, it’s nothing like that. I’m just… _bone-tired_ , you know?”

There’s a second of tinkling laughter—enough for Papyrus to support his theory on the identity of the monster he can’t see—that makes it past the heaviness of the door. Sans smiles where he sits, lets his head thump back against the solid material.

“Okay, I know I’ve _definitely_ used that one before. What’s with all the laughter? You feelin’ sorry for me?” He says it like he’s offended but Papyrus can see the appreciative smile that stretches across Sans’ face.

“Yeah? That’s awfully nice of you,” Sans chuckles, “Sure you’re not sick or something?”

More silence follows and Sans laughs lightly as he starts to sift his hands through the snow at his feet. The powder slips easily between his phalanges and he watches it fall with a free sort of detachment. He paints an almost melancholy picture, sitting there like that. Papyrus finds that he can’t really compare it to anything he’s seen with his own brother.

Sans sits with his body pressed all compact, legs pulled tight to his chest. Somehow though, he looks more composed than Papyrus has ever seen him since getting here. Sans looks soft. Vulnerable.

It’s makes something wrench deep in his soul.

He doesn’t know what to make of it.

Suddenly Sans laughs, breaking the silence in the forest, “You really _do_ have it in for him, huh?”

There’s another pause as Sans listens to the voice beyond the door, relaxed and looking genuinely happy, “It’s nothing like that I just…”

Sans’ smile wavers and he drops the snow in his hands.

He sighs, “I miss him.”

(Oh.

Sans is talking about his brother.)

The flood of guilt that follows that realisation is awful.

He never paid it much mind due to his general displeasure with the kind of monster his counterpart was but, it was obvious from the start that Sans cared about him. Papyrus had just been so obsessed with himself and his own issues that he’d never stopped to consider what this situation must mean for Sans. Because, if it hurt _Papyrus_ this much to be away from his brother, then Sans—Sans who defended his brother’s actions with every breath—must feel the same.

(No matter how despicable his brother was.)

But no. At this point, can he even be certain that that's true?

Sans always speaks so highly of his brother—like the other Papyrus can do no wrong. It instantly strikes him as an unhealthy sort of devotion. But then again, he’s learned by now that he and Sans are more alike than Sans and his brother were. Does he have any right to judge Sans for his willful ignorance when he can’t think of a single thing his _own_ brother would have to do to make Papyrus truly hate him?

It comes down to this:

Would Papyrus still love and protect his brother if he was trapped in a similar situation to Sans?

The answer is immediately clear—he doesn’t even have to think.

( ** _Yes._** )

… it doesn’t make him feel any better about this.

“What?” Sans says, and Papyrus refocuses to see him with a frown on his face, “Oh. No, he’s not… _gone_. He’s still here, I just… haven’t seen him for a few days, I guess.”

It doesn’t take much to infer what Sans must be talking about. Papyrus marvels at his ability to tell a lie so easily, though it’s probably aided by the fact that he doesn’t have to worry about his expressions giving him away.

There’s more silence as the person on the other end of the door presumably speaks.

“Yeah. You’re right of course, it’s just that it… gets hard sometimes, you know?”

Whatever the monster follows that statement up with startles Sans into a loud laugh, “That’s fucking _gross_.”

After that, the conversation seems to shift into idle chatter. Without really knowing the subject of conversation, Papyrus finds himself unable to keep up with what they’re talking about. It’s fine though, he doesn’t really need to know. Not when he can see that it’s soothing Sans rather than inciting him into doing a something reckless.

He’s just about ready to deem things alright enough for him to make his way back to the house when Sans gets up and brushes himself off.

“It’s getting late. I’m gonna head out.” He raps twice on the door as if to say farewell. A gentle rap comes back through before Sans turns away. He takes a few steps in the direction of Snowdin before he stops once more and casts a glance back at the door.

“… and thanks.”

Papyrus doesn’t know if the gratitude will make it all the way to the monster behind the door; especially not with how low Sans’ voice was when he said it. He’s of a mind that it probably doesn’t matter. They seem close—the monster likely already knows how he feels.

He eyes the door carefully, wondering if he should risk speaking to the monster behind the door himself. Back home, it always calmed him down to get his thoughts out by the Ruins. It may not be Asgore behind this door but he’s puzzled together enough to know the monster who takes his place here was just as good a source of comfort as anyone else.

He wonders only briefly what a world so cruel would’ve done to a soul as gentle as hers.

With a sigh he turns away, in the end settling for trailing behind Sans.

(It’s best not to complicate things any more than he’s forced to.)

It’s mildly worrying how easy it is to follow after Sans this time. He doesn’t seem to have any sort of guard up, simply meandering as he drags his feet back towards Snowdin. It seems needlessly dangerous, and something protective rears its head before Papyrus squashes it down. He reminds himself that Sans isn’t his brother and, in any case, the irritable little skeleton likely knows his own world far better than Papyrus does in the little time he’s been here.

If Sans thinks he’s safe, then he probably is.

Nevertheless, he sticks close and watches as Sans makes his way back into town. It’s a little more difficult to tail him without the cover the trees in the forest provide but he manages not to arouse Sans’ suspicious. He follows up to Grillby’s, watches as Sans pauses in front of the door for a minute, gazing up at the sign with a distant look on his face. After a moment, he finally pushes it open and heads on in.

Papyrus almost makes to follow but hesitates.

The last time he went in there wasn’t exactly the best and he reminds himself again that Sans had explicitly told him not to follow.

He’d already brushed off the demand once to satisfy his own growing sense of worry, but now that he knows that Sans is okay… there’s no reason to shadow him anymore. Anything more would be in blatant disregard of Sans’ adamant request.

The best thing he can do for Sans now is to respect his privacy.

He owes him that.

Besides, today’s been a longer, more stressful day than he’s had to deal with in quite a while and Papyrus is really starting to feel the effects of it. His borrowed body is aching all over and he can practically feel his magic fizzing out at the edges. What he needs right now more than ever is to get back to the house and rest.

He turns away from Grillby’s and starts on the trek back to the house.

As he walks, the stray thought that’s been pricking at him since his argument with Sans wades its way back into his head. It’s a troubling thought, one that makes him grit his teeth in frustration. It goes against everything he’s seen so far but…

… he starting to consider the possibility that maybe this universe’s Papyrus isn’t as awful as he’d first thought.

It’s a hard idea to swallow. Especially since, no matter how he spins it, he just _can’t_ justify the abuse he’s seen in the memories. Maybe those times were few and far in between? It doesn’t make him feel much better—he doesn’t think _any_ sort of mistreatment should be seen as acceptable—but.

But maybe there _is_ some part of his counterpart that truly cares for his brother.

Undyne certainly seemed to think so. And then there was what the dogs had said to him today as well…

Papyrus enters the house with a sigh, somehow feeling no less stressed than when he left. His injuries are starting to ache a little more insistently and his counterpart’s body reminds him with a spasm of soreness that it’s still smarting from the beating it had taken. It seems to Papyrus that all he ever does is sleep anymore but, considering how low his HP is and how dangerous this world is in turn, he supposes that topping up his HP isn’t exactly a bad thing.

Besides, he’d done his fair share of sleeping away the day back home too, much to his brother’s constant annoyance.

He drags himself up to his alternate’s room and slouches over to the closet. He flicks through the hangers and pulls out a set of soft pajamas. They’re oddly reminiscent of something his own brother would wear to bed, if not for the black colouration instead of the soft baby blues. Pondering this similarity, he strips out of the armour and pulls on the nightwear instead.

Even as he drops into his counterpart’s bed and slinks underneath the sheets, he thoughts don’t stop pounding into his skull. Instead, they seem relentless in their assault, internally prodding at Papyrus to try and discern why it is exactly that he feels such a visceral hate towards his alternate. Why is it so hard for him to keep himself from immediately shunning everything that his counterpart is? He disapproves of the way he treats Sans, of course, but… what _else_ is there to it?

It’s then, in the dreary blackness of his twin’s bedroom, that Papyrus comes to the unsettling thought that it’s because his alternate reminds him of just what he could become. Of what he could be if he was pushed _just_ a little farther. A shiver runs up his spine at the notion. It’s an eerie thought to him to even consider that he might hurt his kind-hearted, loving little brother just because something in his life had been different enough to allow such an outcome.

He comes to the realisation that he essentially rejects all those parts of himself; he even doesn’t want to _think_ that there’s anything in him that would be capable of such awful acts. And, as such, the simplest way to do it is to reject everything that his alternate is. Even if Sans still cares about him. Even if there’s something in him worth salvaging. Because to accept one part would be to accept everything.

And to accept his counterpart as he is would mean to accept that horrible, blackened part of himself as well.

It’s those thoughts that keep Papyrus restless and unable to sleep. He tosses and turns in bed, uncomfortable no matter what position he’s in. He doesn’t know how much time passes as he slips in and out of fitful periods of rest but, when he’s next truly alert, it’s when the door to the room opens up with a click.

The smell of alcohol is what hits him first, excessive and reeking. He doesn’t turn, processes somewhere in his bleary, just-woken state that it’s probably Sans coming back from Grillby’s. Instead he stills his breathing as he hears wobbly footsteps make their way towards him, faltering in their steps as Sans presumably tries to keep his balance.

After a moment, he can feel Sans hovering nearby at the edge of the bed. He almost turns to greet him when the mattress dips and he feels the warm heat of the smaller skeleton’s bones crawl up close to him. A hand reaches down and shakes him gently back and forth, just once.

“Boss…?” Sans slips on the sibilant letters as he speaks.

Papyrus doesn’t answer. Doesn’t know what he’d say when Sans is clearly so drunk that he’d stumble in here like this thinking that his brother was the one lying in bed.

There’s another moment of pause as Sans waits for Papyrus to respond. When nothing seems forthcoming, Sans shifts again till he’s lying down in bed with him. Papyrus wonders briefly if he plans to sleep here. He tenses at the thought, unsure how to react to a development like that.

Silence reigns for a moment before Papyrus hears Sans shuffling beside him once more. It’s slow going and messily uncoordinated but, after some minor trouble, Sans presses up close to him. With a boldness that probably comes partially from being drunk and partially from thinking he’s asleep, Sans curls around him, chest pressed firmly to Papyrus’s back.

Papyrus freezes at the contact.

He wonders if Sans notices that he did.

“I love you, Pap.” Sans breathes against the back of his neck, endless devotion in every syllable. Something rooted low in his soul aches at the sound of it.

The words tickle where they brush against his bare bones and Papyrus shivers reflexively against the feeling. Sans still doesn’t notice, simply nuzzles against his back and inches minutely closer. It’s such open, unguarded affection that Papyrus feels compelled to move.

To reciprocate.

He turns over in bed and Sans makes a little noise of surprise but doesn’t make to move away. He resettles against the small body pressed up to him and wraps his arms tightly around Sans’ form. Like this, the short skeleton is nestled safely in his arms, burrowed deep in his hold.

After that, the words come easily; something that he’s said to his brother countless times before, “I love you too, Sans.”

He feels the body against his go tense at the words but Sans still doesn’t pull away.

Instead, after a moment, the skeleton in his arms goes lax while the grip in his shirt tightens. Sans shrinks further into him, pressing the front of his face to Papyrus’s chest. Papyrus in turn, holds him even closer, determined to offer him this illusion at least to soothe his soul.

They don’t say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me while writing this chapter: do monsters underground even know what a rose is..........??


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, I forgot to thank you guys last time for 1000+ kudos! B'D <33333 well, better late than never I suppose so!!!! **THANK YOU GUYS** , from the bottom of my heart, for supporting s&s! ur seriously the greatest!!!!! //tears up
> 
> please enjoy the chapter! it's one i've been eager to get to for quite a while now,,!!!  
>    
>  ~~(also, quick warning for dubcon in this chapter. it's not explicit or anything but be safe if that kind of content troubles u <3 if you need something like a summary so that you can skip it entirely, shoot me a message and i'll get back to u with an alternative asap)~~
> 
>  **EDIT** : okay, so apparently i've reached a point in grossness where i can't actually tell if something is dubcon or noncon anymore??? ajshdajksh at this point i've got at least two people thinking i should be **warning for noncon** instead of dubcon this chapter instead so i'm gonna do that and hope i haven't scarred anyone too badly already hhhhh //rip
> 
> If **noncon** is something you're uncomfortable with and you want to know what exactly it is you'll be faced with this chapter, please [**head over here**](http://0netype.tumblr.com/private/152518511052/tumblr_ofviljxf3N1v7eiq3) to read a summary of the events in question and choose an option that works best for you. <3

_He’s going to fucking **break** something._

_Sans was supposed to be home **hours** ago and yet, here he is instead, sitting in Grillby’s **filthy** little den of miscreants. He doesn’t even notice it when Papyrus slams the door open and enters, probably too **drunk** to care what the source of the commotion is. The other patrons certainly don’t miss him though, leering at him with half-interest that Papyrus is quick to shut down with a well-aimed glare._

_The bartender catches sight of him but the expression on his face doesn’t shift in the slightest. He continues wiping down the glass in his hand as he bends down to whisper to Sans. The top of his body arches over his brother’s smaller form and, as Sans tilts his head up to listen, the distance between them grows short._

_Like this, they could probably **kiss** if they wanted._

_He clenches his fists tightly at his sides as Grillby finishes alerting Sans to his presence. He sees his brother jolt upright, posture instantly straight. Sans whirls around in his seat, “Boss! What are you doing here?”_

_“You were supposed to be at home by now, Sans.”_

_It doesn’t come out quite the way he wanted. It’s not reprimanding or stern enough. Instead, he sounds petulant and whiny, like a **child**. All that’s missing is him stomping his foot in indignation. _

_Grillby snickers and Papyrus feels the hot heat of anger run like electricity through his bones, “Looks like mother finally came to pick you up.”_

_“Don’t be an asshole.” Sans chastises but Papyrus sees the amused grin plastered to his face._

_Grillby continues to chuckle and slides another drink Sans’ way. His brother accepts it with a murmured thanks. His hand closes over Grillby’s as he takes the glass and Papyrus grits his teeth at the flicker of flame that sparks over his brother’s phalanges with the contact._

_Unbidden, Undyne’s words spark up in his mind._

_They’re **close**._

_“We’re leaving, Sans.”_

_“Where’s the fire, bro?” Sans smiles at him before sending a positively **playful** look the bartender’s way, “Whoops, never mind.”_

_Grillby laughs, his whole form lighting up, bright and warm. The colours flicker and dance against Sans’ skull, the wide, white expanse of bone a perfect canvas for the light. Papyrus is overcome with the sudden urge to **douse** the flames._

_“We’re leaving.” He marches forward and wrenches Sans’ wrist away from his glass, grips his hand tight in his, “ **Now**.”_

_He rips Sans away from the bar, starts to drag him towards the exit even as he stumbles and tries to catch his balance, “ **Ow** , shit—Pap, what the fuck—”_

_He growls, not bothering to stop or turn, “Do. **Not**. Test my patience, Sans.”_

_His brother goes quiet after that, obediently trailing after him. Not that he has much choice in the matter since Papyrus refuses to let go of his hand. He shoots a victorious look back over his shoulder at Grillby as they push through the door but the bartender has already started wiping down the counter. Something about the casual dismissal only makes him seethe further._

_So he's angry._

_But that’s not new._

_What **is** new is that this is finally enough to push him over the edge he’s been teetering on for ages._

_He was unwilling before, mildly put off even just by the thought of it. No matter how much Undyne teased and prodded at him, he never had any desire for intimacy with anyone. It’s different now though. Different because it’s **Sans**. And Sans is **his**. It doesn’t make sense for anyone to be closer to his brother than he himself is._

_And if that means establishing his place then so be it._

_He’ll do it if it means keeping his brother by his side._

_He pulls Sans in after him as they enter the house, bangs the door shut behind them the second they’re both in._

_“Papyrus, what—”_

_He doesn’t give his brother a chance to finish the sentence. He slams him against the front door, hands planted on either side of his skull. He’s taller than Sans now, has **been** taller than him for what seems like ages. Even still, Sans takes a moment to adjust, his gaze shifting from where it seems he thinks Papyrus **should** be to where he actually is, towering over him._

_Papyrus is aware he’s crowding him, uses it and the nervousness it causes to his advantage. He leans down and ignores the way his brother flinches. He stares him right in the face and bites out his words with exact precision._

_“Fuck me.”_

_Sans’ sockets go dark. There’s a moment of silence, enough time for fresh sweat to break out over his face, before he manages to speak, “W-what?”_

_He’s certain Sans has heard him. His expression betrays nothing less than complete comprehension. Never the less, he repeats himself, voice clear and confident, “I want you to fuck me.”_

_This time, Sans’ response is near instant._

_“No.”_

_It’s probably odd that hearing that word from his brother does nothing but send a thrill tickling up his spine. But, at the same time, he thinks it’s also understandable. It’s just so **new**. Sans hardly **ever** says no to him. In fact, it often seems like Sans goes out of his way to make sure **no** **one** ever says no to Papyrus. _

_Hearing him say it now is refreshing._

_He could almost take it as a **challenge**._

_Papyrus presses in closer and Sans seems to shrink back even though there’s no where for him to go, “Why not?”_

_“So that’s what this is about? You’re fucking horny?” His brother ignores his question, a light flush dusting his cheekbones, and posits one of his own instead, “Not that this isn’t, uh, **flattering** or whatever, but don’t you have friends or something you could ask instead?” _

_He simply shrugs, “You’re my brother.”_

_Sans stares at him, “Yeah. I am.”_

_And Papyrus isn’t an idiot. He isn’t the child Sans treats him like either. So he knows. He **knows** what Sans is trying to get at with that disapproval in his gaze._

_But, the thing is, Papyrus doesn’t **care**._

_Sans is his._

_Sans. Is. **His**._

_And he’ll be **damned** if he lets anyone get in the way of that._

_“So you won’t do it then?”_

_Sans doesn’t answer, the ruddiness in his face getting more and more pronounced in a mixture of alcohol and probable embarrassment._

_“You’d rather I go out and let some low-grade mutt from the bar have me then do it yourself?”_

_When Sans flinches at his words he almost feels **guilty**. He knows better than to **manipulate** his brother’s protective urges like this. Knows better than to talk Sans into something he’s undoubtedly going to **regret**. But it’s so **hard** to care about **any** of that when he has the perfect way to bind his brother to his side right in front of him. And, in any case, it’s an empty threat. The only monster he wants is Sans, and likely for a much different reason than most._

_But Sans doesn’t know that._

_“Fine,” he exaggerates a sigh as he pulls away from him, “If you need me, I’ll be at Grillby’s.”_

_He pushes Sans away from the door with ease and steps back out into the snow. He strides towards Grillby’s again full of confidence. He doesn’t turn around or wait to see if Sans follows._

_In no time at all he’s pulling open the door to the bar. As he steps in, all eyes turn on him. A muted sort of silence falls over the place. No doubt they’re all wondering what he’s doing here now that Sans is already safely home. He eyes the patrons closely, their scarred faces and drunken leering as unappealing as always. If he didn’t already know as much about himself, this would’ve confirmed it—he’s never going to let any of these wrecks lay a hand on him._

_They’ll never lay another hand on Sans either if he has anything to say about it._

_The door opens up again behind him and Papyrus doesn’t have to whirl around to feel the familiar low **burn** of Sans’ magic fill into the room. _

_He smirks, “Today’s your lucky day.”_

_The bar remains quiet. Papyrus can’t see it from his position but he can perfectly picture the way his brother must be going tense. He straightens up till he’s at his tallest._

_“I’ve seen the way you mongrels pant and drool whenever I walk into this dismal little establishment,” he says with a sneer, “And, normally, I let it slide out of good humour and my own sense of dutiful magnanimity.”_

_He feels **hyperaware** of the moment. Feels like he can see the flicker of interest spark to life in a dozen different pairs of eyes. Feels like the half a step Sans takes towards him is amplified a thousand times till it **booms** in his skull. It’s a **powerful** experience; heady._

_“But today, I’m feeling **especially** generous.”_

_He pauses to let the statement sink in. The patrons are slow even when they’re sober but the smarter ones among them seem to be picking up on the situation. Creeping comprehension spreads across the room with an air of cautious disbelief. A few monsters sit up more attentively, their eyes looking him over more deliberately now that they have his half-worded permission._

_Papyrus has them exactly where he wants them._

_“I—”_

_Sans yanks him down by the arm._

_Without a second wasted in between, he forcibly drags Papyrus out the door._

_They walk out at a brisk pace, rushing through the snow at a speed certain to make them slip. He’s about to argue, about to growl at his brother to let him go because, how **dare** Sans treat him so **roughly**? But before he can get another word out, Sans stops in his tracks._

_He lets go of Papyrus’s hand._

_“Alright,” Sans doesn’t turn around to face him but his voice rings clear, “ **You win.** ”_

_A pulse of **victory** pushes through him at the words._

_Sans starts walking back towards their house and, with more enthusiasm than he’s show since he was a baby bones, Papyrus is quick to follow him._

_This time, when the door shuts behind them, the mood is tense in a different way. The air between them feels almost electric. Sans is quiet, staring at the ground, still and unmoving._

_He politely breaks the silence, “Any preferences as to where you’d like to do this, brother?”_

_“I don’t care.” Sans mumbles and Papyrus tries his best to keep his irritation with Sans’ attitude down._

_Instead of yelling, he steadies himself and brushes past Sans to take a seat on the couch. Once settled, he pats the space next to him, “Then come sit. We’ll ease into it.”_

(He doesn’t want to see this.)

_Sans hesitates for a second but a simple glare from Papyrus is all it takes for him to slowly approach. He sits down wordlessly, leaving a decidedly large amount of space in between them. Papyrus frowns at that, shifts closer to Sans and **ignores** it when his brother tenses._

(He really, _really_ , doesn’t want to see this.)

_It’s obvious to Papyrus at this point that Sans is unwilling to make the first move. He might have agreed to this but his nerves are keeping him from following through. There’s no choice. He’ll have to take the initiative like he always does._

_He reaches out with both hands and cups Sans’ face. His brother still isn’t looking at him, though by the darkening blush on his face he’s certainly aware of what’s happening. Papyrus thumbs a cheekbone with his gloved hand, marvels at being able to **touch** Sans like this after so long without allowing himself any form of physical contact at all._

_He leans forward and **kisses** him._

_It’s fine, if a bit lackluster with Sans staying stiff against him. Maybe it’d be a little more enjoyable if Sans would actually make the effort to participate. With that in mind, Papyrus grips more tightly with his hands. That seems to be enough to startle his brother back into action. With some remaining measure of hesitance, Sans open his mouth to him and conjures a tongue to greet him with. Papyrus forms his own in response, curious and cautious and slow._

(He wants to wake up already.                                                            

He _knows_ he’s dreaming so why can’t he force himself to _wake up_?)

_They kiss for a little while, tongues entwining. Papyrus is more than a little surprised by how much he actually **enjoys** it. Once he gets the hang of the pace being set, he gets a little more demanding; **rougher** as he delves deeper into Sans’ mouth. His brother makes something of a **whimper** at that but the noise only fuels him to hold Sans closer and kiss him deeper._

_When Papyrus breaks away, they’re both left panting. Sans’ face is flushed brightly and he moves a hand up to wipe away the saliva gathered at the corner of his mouth. He ducks his head and avoids Papyrus’s gaze as he does so. It makes him want to kiss Sans again._

_But there’s more to this than just the kissing._

_“Touch me, Sans.” He demands._

_His brother **freezes** at the command._

_With a sigh, Papyrus bends down once more to kiss him, enjoying the easy acquiescence with which Sans opens himself up to it. As he licks into Sans, he shifts closer. He lets one hand fall from where he’s gripping Sans’ shoulders to the top of his brother’s lax left hand. He holds it lightly in his own, stroking over the phalanges almost reverently. Sans starts to **relax** against him again._

_He gently pulls Sans’ hand forward and places it at the front of his pants, just grazing the line of his zipper._

(Fucking hell, Sans fell asleep in bed with him.

This is the literal _worst_ time to be seeing something like this, with Sans laying right beside him.

He doesn’t want to see this. He doesn’t want to wake up and see Sans’ face and know this part of his past without it ever having been shared with him. It’s wrong.

It’s _wrong_.)

_He pulls his head back, watches as Sans directs his gaze downwards. His brother’s phalanges twitch reflexively where they lie against his front. Papyrus can practically see the conflict on his face. He doesn’t interfere, more interested in watching as Sans fights whatever instinctual urge he has to stop. It’s nice, in a way, to know that his brother is willing to cast away his own sense of morality for him._

_There’s a pause._

_Then, almost faster than Papyrus can process it, Sans moves. He clinks open Papyrus’s belt and smoothly slides down his zip in an instant. In the very next, he starts to pull the garment off. Papyrus lifts his hips a little as Sans drags his pants down, exposing his pelvis to the open air._

_Despite himself, he flushes—Sans hasn’t seen him even **partially** unclothed since he was a kid._

_There’s another moment of quiet stillness as Sans considers him. Papyrus is just starting to feel **uncomfortable** under the scrutiny when his brother finally shifts closer. Sans drops his head down._

_The first tentative breath near his pubis makes him gasp._

(No, no, no—)

_“ **No**.” Papyrus says firmly, pushing Sans’ head back, “Stop.”_

_At the slow relief on Sans’ face, Papyrus sighs and clarifies, “I already told you that I want you to fuck me.”_

_Sans’s expression morphs back into something distinctly upset, “Boss, I… Boss, **please** , I—”_

_“Are you going to do it or should I just find someone else?” He snaps._

_The threat hangs between them, **heavy**._

_Sans takes it to heart._

(He wishes his mind would stop playing these memories at him.

That it would stop forcing him to watch things he had no right to see in the first place.)

_He straightens up and presses his left hand **firmly** at Papyrus’s sternum, pushes him back till he’s laid down on the couch with his head propped up by the armrest. He adjusts them both so that Papyrus’s one leg is bent up on the couch while the other is propped on the floor. Sans crawls between his spread legs. Another wave of confliction passes over his features before he undoes his drawstring and lets his shorts sag against his hips._

_Sans doesn’t meet his eyes as he leans forward, his short frame now hanging over Papyrus with his hands braced on either side of him. Unlike the kissing, this just makes Papyrus feels restless and **uneasy**. He resists the urge to fidget as Sans reaches with one hand to properly push down the waistband of his shorts. He watches with something like muted interest as Sans uncovers the bones of his pelvis and hesitantly touches himself right above him, small, half-bitten noises escaping him as his magic starts to coalesce. His brother stops before anything forms, removing his hand and letting it hover for a moment before bringing it down to the front of Papyrus’ own pelvis._

(He wants to wake up.

 _Please_ let him wake up.)

_Papyrus feels something wet drip down onto his face._

_He looks up from where he’d been focusing on Sans’ hand to find that his brother is crying._

_“Shit,” Sans curses, wiping at his eyes even as tears spring up anew, “Shit, I—Pap, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I-I **can’t**.”_

_Papyrus thinks that it probably says something about him that his first reaction here upon seeing Sans’ face isn’t regret or remorse. He’s kind of pissed off actually. And more than a little disappointed._

_Why is it always that, no matter what it is, if he wants something done, he has to do it himself?_

_“Fine,” he growls, sitting up so fast that Sans startles backwards automatically, “Then **you** don’t have to do anything.”_

(He has to wake up.)

_He pushes Sans down into the couch, reverses their positions so that **he’s** the one boxing his brother in instead. Sans looks small beneath him, face tear-stained and body shaking. He’s not sure he’d call it pleasure exactly, but it sends a **shiver** up his spine seeing him like that all the same._

(He _has_ to wake _up_.)

_“Just let me have you.” He says._

_Because, really, that’s what he wants._

_He wants his brother to be devoted to him before anyone else._ (Wake up.) _Wants to fall asleep knowing that Sans is safe and at home and not gallivanting around town in a drunken haze._ (Wake up.) _Wants Sans to drop everything and be by his side the moment he asks._ (Wake up.) _Wants Sans to be close to him like they used to be._ (Wake. Up!)

_He wants Sans to be completely and wholly **his**._

(Wake up, wake up, wake up—

_Papyrus reaches down and softly brushes the tears away from his brother’s face._

_Sans shuts his eyes._

_“… **okay**.”_

(—wake up, wake up, wake—)

“—up!” he gasps awake, shoots up in bed with his sockets blown wide.

Immediately, he looks to his side, afraid to have woken the monster in bed with him through his fitful attempts at getting up. When he turns however, he finds the bed empty. There’s an odd measure of disappointment he feels upon the discovery but, more than anything else, he’s incredibly relieved—it’d be awkward to explain why he’d woken up in such a panic, especially considering the tenseness of yesterday.

He takes a moment just to breathe, calming himself down from the memory he’d just been forced to endure. Even now the thought of it leaves a flush to his bones, embarrassment running high from what he’d seen. It’s difficult to get the images out of his head; Sans hanging over not-him while quickly rubbing at himself and then being roughly pushed into the cushions of the couch…

In the dark of the room, a brightening glow catches his eye.

(Oh no.

Oh, _fuck_ no.)

Underneath his alternate’s clothes, Papyrus spots the familiar orange gleam of his magic. The light emits steadily from both his chest and further down south, his soul at least more dim than the mortifying display by his pelvis. Papyrus flushes harder at the sight of it, guilt and shame roiling deep in his bones.

(What is _wrong_ with him that seeing something like _that_ would be enough to work him up??)

The sound of a soft thud rips his gaze away and he refocuses on the far wall from where it seemed to come from. It’s the wall that he shares with Sans’ room and Papyrus finds himself instantly stilling in order to pick up any further noise. But, besides some further shuffling around that suggests that Sans is awake, nothing else comes through.

If Sans is awake though… that means he’ll be coming in here soon to wake him up.

He considers his options; if he simply waits for his predicament to go away, he gambles at the chance that Sans’ll come in to wake him and catch sight of it. If he… ‘works through it’ instead, that _still_ runs the risk of Sans walking in on him. So, really, both his choices are unappealing. At least with the first, he could make an effort to hide it… but then again, if he was quick about it, maybe the second option would solve things faster.

He’s still mulling it over when another loud noise from through the wall prompts him into action.

Before he consciously makes the decision, Papyrus slips a hand beneath his alternate’s pajamas.

It’s not as weird as to be touching himself in someone else’s body as he’d initially thought it would be. It’s surprisingly easy to distance himself from the issue, in fact. It probably helps that he’s not wearing his copy’s deep red gloves for one—the other Papyrus’s hand looks the same as his save for a few chips and scars along the fingerbones—and the dim light coming in from the window isn’t quiet enough to illuminate the room properly. The fact that the magic that forms is his own familiar colours is comforting as well. Sans had told him earlier that orange wasn’t something he associated with his brother so that too lends to the illusion that he’s simply doing something he would’ve done on any other morning he was feeling the urge.

For all intents and purposes, he might as well be laying in his own bedroom lazily wrapping a hand around himself.

He hangs onto that thought as he moves his hand slowly over the shaft of his erection and rubs at his length. It’s rough and the friction is a little too much for just the start, but something tells him that his twin probably doesn’t stash a bottle of lube anywhere on hand. He’ll just have to settle for going a little slowly and using something more improvised to help him along.

With a cautious press at his magic, Papyrus conjures his tongue and brings his hand back up to his mouth. He licks at it generously, ignoring the prickle of embarrassment that threatens to overwhelm him at the thought of what he’s doing, before dragging his hand back down and gripping himself in hand once more.

It’s easier like this with his spit to slick the way and Papyrus wastes no time in working up a steady rhythm. It’s less about pleasure than it is about getting himself off as quickly as possible so he doesn’t tease or build-up the momentum like he normally would do. He spares half a thought to wonder if his alternate ever indulges in moments like this. He doesn’t really seem the time—comes off as too no-nonsense to ever waste a moment to more carnal activities. But then again, he _had_ just seen evidence that his copy is certainly not a virgin. So maybe it’s just that he doesn’t do this himself. Maybe he just has Sans—

( _Nope_.

Not gonna think about it.)

Papyrus works at his length more rapidly, keeping his focus directed at the task. He passes a phalange over the head of his cock and holds back a groan that begs to spill at the sensation it causes. He shivers instead, repeating the motion a couple of times as his body starts to tense. He’s handling the speed well, already close to finishing.

Still.

It really had been strange to see how willing Sans was to do anything for his brother. Papyrus wonders if he would have done the same if _his_ Sans had asked. It’s a disquieting thought, one that he doesn’t want to consider too closely. Not that he thinks his brother would ever request such a thing but… it puts the brothers’ relationship in this universe in a light he’d never considered before.

His alternate is possessive, that much is certain. Papyrus still can’t accept entirely that it comes from a place of love but it’s at least undeniable by now that his twin can’t cope with the thought of Sans replacing him with someone else. He’s so twisted up with the idea of it that he’s willing to forgo his own discomfort and lay Sans down beneath him. Willing to pin him to the cushions of their sofa and lean over him with the intent to take.

He’d probably have no qualms about bending down to kiss Sans again, letting it linger as he moved his hands underneath his brother’s clothes to brush over his ribs. His alternate was unquestionably forward enough for something like that. Maybe it’d even be enough to drag out a moan from Sans.

Papyrus wonders what that might sound like.

Sans’ voice is lower than his own brother’s. It’s deeper and a touch rougher as well, like it’s been dragged out of him when he speaks. It’s… not entirely unpleasant.

To hear that same voice begging for release would be—

“ _Hah—!_ ” Papyrus is quick to smother the sound that escapes him when he comes.

He’s a little slower to protect himself from the slowly dawning horror of what he’s done.

(Oh fuck.)

Even as his soul relaxes from the pulse of climax, it kicks right back up into a frantic pace in light of his actions. Papyrus can feel the heat of guilt and shame wash over his bones till he’s sure his face is inflamed with the hue of his magic. It doesn’t help that his fingers are still sticky and coated with the remnants of his release.

(Oh no no no no _no_.)

He touched himself while thinking of Sans.

More to the point, he _came_ while thinking of Sans.

(There’s no possible way for this to get any worse.)

There’s a knock at the door.

“You awake?” Sans calls through it.

(… fucking fantastic.)

Papyrus can’t find his voice amidst the turmoil he’s soothing in his soul.

A pause.

“I’m coming in.” Sans announces.

The door cracks open and, before his thoughts can spiral him any further into self-recriminations, Papyrus hurriedly rearranges himself in a manner that looks more or less innocuous. He’s just settling in properly when Sans’ eyelights fall onto him. Papyrus can’t quite find it in himself to smile but he offers a weak attempt at one anyways.

Sans doesn’t smile back, “Just came in to tell you that I’m pulling out leftovers for breakfast if you’re hungry.”

“Umm,” It’s a little difficult to look the skeleton in the face with the most recent dream and his own reaction to it still fresh in his mind. Papyrus slides his gaze away before he can help it, “Yeah, that sounds… great. I’ll be right there.”

Sans nods at him and makes to turn away before stopping.

There’s a flash of something uncertain in his eyes but it’s gone when he looks back at Papyrus.

“Just for the record,” Sans grins, and it stretches across his face in true mirth, reaching his eyelights and leaving them sparkling in a way that almost dazes Papyrus where he lies, “If you don’t think I can recognise by now what my brother’s face looks like after he comes, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Papyrus stares at him, frozen in place.

Sans starts to cackle, shaking his head and moving to close the door again. Even as it shuts, Papyrus can hear the sound of his laughter from beyond the wood.

If the embarrassment wasn’t there before, it definitely is _now_ and he can feel his cheekbones blazing. He resists the urge to scream in utter mortification. Hiding under the covers and never coming back out is looking like a really good idea right now.

But at least it doesn’t seem like Sans is upset with him anymore.

If he’s waking him up politely for breakfast and joking around with him then that’s got to mean he’s put the events of yesterday behind him. Papyrus wonders if it’s because he remembers last night and if this is some sort of peace offering in return for letting Sans pretend he was his brother. Or, more likely, maybe this is his way of saying ‘let’s never speak about this again’ considering the fact that he was gone before Papyrus woke up.

He pushes back the creeping sense of shame and sighs, getting himself slowly out of bed.

Whatever it is that Sans intends, what doesn’t change is that Papyrus still has to properly put in the effort to make amends.

He cleans himself up with the clothes he’s wearing, surreptitiously tossing them into the laundry hamper in the corner of the room—yet another feature that hadn’t been in his own. He firmly shuts himself down from thinking too closely about what just happened, sure that any stray thoughts down that line will only lead to more unnecessary troubles.

It was a fluke, he assures himself. The dream got him all worked up and he was going too quick to really try to put his thoughts elsewhere. It’s perfectly reasonable that he’d accidentally—

( _Don’t think about it._ )

… in any case.

For now, he has to focus on getting dressed and apologising to Sans.

Any breakdowns can wait till afterwards.

When he’s fully dressed in a fresh set of his alternate’s daily uniform, he sets off down the stairs.

Sans is already sitting on the couch, munching down on what seems to be a bowl of cereal. He’s watching some sort of morning talk show with a surprise amount of focus. There’s another bowl precariously placed on the seat next to him of what seems to be the same. Papyrus assumes it’s meant for him.

Sans doesn’t look up at him at he when he comes close, eyes still fixed firmly to the television screen.

“Hey. I found some cereal,” Sans says, gesturing at his bowl without looking his way, “It’s kinda stale but when I got downstairs I didn’t feel like heating anything up, so I figured this’d have to do.”

Papyrus just nods in answer before remembering that Sans isn’t looking his way. He opens his mouth to respond vocally but finds that he can’t speak. He hesitates with his words, standing in one place and fidgeting, the thought of the impending conversation making him feel uncharacteristically timid.

It takes him long enough that Sans finally drags his gaze away from whatever he’s watching to look at him.

He eyes Papyrus carefully, “What?”

Somehow, that’s enough for the apology to come spilling out, “I just wanted to say that I’m, uhh… I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. About your brother and you.”

There’s no way to describe Sans’ expression other than completely blank, “We’re really doing this right now?”

“You were right,” Papyrus continues on quickly because it seems to him like Sans is going to interrupt and, if he does, Papyrus doesn’t know if he’ll be able to work up the ability to try apologising again, “I really _don’t_ know anything about you two. I was so caught up in my comparisons of our universes that I… just lost sight of that, I guess. It didn’t make sense to me that there could ever _be_ a universe where my brother and I weren’t exactly like how we always are back home.”

Sans snorts.

Papyrus steels himself, gets straight to the crux of the issue, “I shouldn’t have said that your brother doesn’t love you. That was uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

Sans just stares at him.

Papyrus lets his voice drop down into something so soft its almost a whisper, “I really am, I swear. It wasn’t my place to say anything or to make any assumptions like that.

There’s a momentary pause where neither or them speaks.

Then Sans sighs, “As long as we’re doing this… I guess I should clarify that I, uh… I get it.”

Now it’s Papyrus’s turn to stare.

“I get what we must seem like to someone like you who talks about his brother like the sun shines out his ass,” the words make Papyrus instinctively tense in defensiveness but, the smile on Sans’ face as he speaks is almost gentle and Papyrus relaxes in spite of himself, “And, to be honest, it’s kinda refreshing to see you being so open with how you feel about him.”

“When it comes to me and _my_ brother… we never really had a chance at something like that,” Sans face darkens in a thought that Papyrus has no access to, “So I understand that, to you, things between us probably don’t exactly seem… ideal.”

(Yeah.

Understatement.)

“But what you don’t get is that I _deserve_ that. I made some pretty terrible choices and so I have to live with the consequences, yeah?”

Papyrus is overcome with the automatic need to reassure Sans and to tell him that what he deserves is more than what he’s actually getting, but he restrains himself. There’s no way Sans will accept that. Especially with how passionately he’s speaking right now, as if nothing else could ever be true.

“Before you came here, things between us were at a weird point. A lot of uh… _stuff_ had happened and so things got kinda complicated in our relationship. Boss started getting a little distant and…” Sans looks conflicted, like he has a thousand thoughts about that particular subject that he’s not too keen on sharing, “Well, that’s not important. What _is_ important is that we had no chance to sort through all that. I woke up one morning and, suddenly, _you_ were here and Pap was no where to be seen. So, everything that was going on was left unfinished and now I’m just… I’m feeling a little lost, you know?”

“I know.” Papyrus says, _very seriously_ , because hell. If there’s _one_ thing he knows _intimately_ since coming here, it’s what feeling lost is like.

Sans takes one look at his face and starts laughing, the tension falling off of him in waves, “Yeah, I guess you _would_ know.”

There’s a brief silence following his laughter but it’s companionable.

“Thanks,” Sans says and his voice is soft, “For apologising.”

Papyrus opens his mouth to respond, to thank Sans for his clarification as well but the expression on Sans’ face stops him. The smaller skeleton is looking off to the side, face slowly going red as he shifts in place. If Papyrus didn’t know any better, he’d say Sans looked embarrassed about something.

When Sans looks up at him again, his face is glowing in a way that does something funny to Papyrus’s soul, “And uh… thanks for last night too.”

(Oh.

So he _does_ remember.)

At the mention of it, Papyrus flushes as well, “Oh, umm… it was the least I could do. After everything.”

Sans nods along but still looks flustered, rapidly changing the subject, “Well, now that that’s out of the way—let’s eat and then I’ll show you the machine, yeah?”

Papyrus’s soul leaps up in his chest at the sound of that. He hurriedly takes his seat, only remembering to pick up the bowl just before he crushes it underneath him. He wastes no time in digging right in.

As he adjusts himself to sit more comfortably, his side brushes up against Sans’ and he mumbles out a throwaway apology. Sans doesn’t respond, instead going stiff beside him. Papyrus turns to him out of curiosity, only to see the small skeleton still red-faced and now gripping tight onto the bowl in his hands. He’s concentrating very closely on the cereal, as if reading something within the grains. It’s clearly a very poor front to cover up his embarrassment.

Papyrus feels the hint of a smile spread onto his face. Sans is more vulnerable to the nearness of his presence than he acts. It’s honestly kind of cute, especially with the way he goes crimson so deeply. It makes Papyrus’s soul pulse brightly, happy and light.

He can sort of see why his alternate would enjoy kissing a face like that.

He huffs out a laugh and picks up his spoon.

Then promptly drops it when his latest thought catches up with him.

“Uh, are you okay?” Sans asks as the utensil falls to the floor and Papyrus stares after it in horror.

(… _fuck_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;D ;D ;D
> 
> heheheh finally getting this sin train chugging along B')
> 
> just a quick announcement that i won't be updating s&s for all of november b/c i'll be working on it extensively during nanowrimo,,! i'm just gonna be spitting words onto a blank document for the whole month and then going back to it once december rolls around for editing so, while there won't be any new chapters in the next 4 weeks, you'll hopefully be seeing very regular updates afterwards B')
> 
> in the meantime, ur more than welcome to come over to [**my tumblr**](http://0netype.tumblr.com) to check on my progress and nudge me a little if it seems necessary ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so nano went well B')

“Well, this is it.” Sans says as he flicks on the lights to the basement.

The bulbs flicker for a moment, seem to threaten at the edge of popping before going steady. The light they cast is almost sickly compared to the clinical, bright white tube lights installed in his own world. He can see that the installations for the same type of lights exist here but that they’re empty and unused. Papyrus winces at the sight of them.

As always, this universe has a way of making things seem infinitely bleak.

“Sorry about the mess,” Sans continues as he steps over countless loose papers strewn about the floor, “I haven’t been down here in ages.”

Papyrus follows after him, carefully avoiding the clutter, “What? Then how did you keep track of the resets?”

Sans doesn’t meet his gaze, “I didn’t.”

The small skeleton turns his body away from Papyrus then, indicating an end to that line of conversation. Papyrus lets it go with a sigh, not keen on pressing the issue when Sans so obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.

As Sans begins to the clear the area up a little, Papyrus continues to stare at him, thoughtful and quiet. The guilt from this morning still weighs heavily in his soul, making him feel restless and out-of-place. He tries to remind himself that there’s no time to waste—that there’s no use in reprimanding himself when what he should be focusing on is fixing the machine and getting back home—but watching Sans right now just makes the awful twisting in his soul ramp up even harder.

(If it wasn’t for his fucking evil god damn twin, he wouldn’t even be _in_ this situation.)

There’s that familiar rush of anger at his alternate that follows as he remembers the memory he saw but, this time, it’s followed by an overwhelmingly sickening feeling as he recalls his actions immediately afterwards. A swirling heat settles in his bones at the thought of it. There’s some measure of him that feels like he’s no better than his twin for having felt aroused at the images in his mind and then having indulged in them afterwards. It was far from a pleasurable experience, but it doesn’t absolve him from having done it in the first place. Especially since, even now, as Sans moves around and bends over to shift things to the side, Papyrus can feel the heat rush up to his cheekbones.

“Hey,” Sans snaps at him, “You gonna help or just stand around looking lost?”

“Sorry.” Papyrus murmurs before crouching down to offer what assistance he can, starting with the mess of papers at his feet.

The sheets he picks up are all in a mostly unfamiliar scrawl. He assumes it must be Sans’ since his alternate doesn’t even have access to this room in the first place. It’s nothing like his own lazy penmanship but it’s not his brother’s neat, block script either though he can clearly pick out the parallels. He curiously reads over one of the papers in his hand but none of it makes much sense, out-of-context as it is. Seeing it like this, it’s just a list of data and theory; more numbers and twice-striked mistakes in pen than anything concrete. He shuffles it back in with the stack he’s already made to the side.

He collects the rest of the papers silently.

Once the floor is mostly free of slipping hazards and the papers have been shoved into a drawer, Sans leads him over to the corner of the room. There lies a large object covered over with a tarp. Papyrus had been eyeing it since they moment they walked in and it’s somewhat a relief to be led to it now, practically confirming that it’s what he’d been hoping it would be. A rush of dust surrounds them as Sans pulls the covering off and Papyrus turns his head slightly off to the side, shielding his eyes to avoid getting anything in his sockets.

He feels almost giddy when he sees the familiar machine underneath as the tarp comes down off of it.

“Well. There you have it.” Sans says without much fanfare, but his voice is distant in Papyrus’s hearing. It’s background noise, something far off and unimportant as he zones out to the existence of anything but the machine itself.

It’s broken.

Badly.

And yet, somehow, it’s a lot better than Papyrus was expecting.

Being in this universe for as long as he has at this point, he’s learned to let go of any sense of things being as good as they were back home. So, coming in here expecting the absolute worst case scenario actually leaves him pleasantly surprised at what he finds.

The machine is in bad shape there’s no denying that, but he’s filled with the absolute, undeniable surety that it’s nothing that he can’t handle. He hasn’t done more than give it a cursory look over from where he’s standing yet, but the damage seems mostly superficial. Bumps and cracks and dents line the shell of the thing—it’s clearly been through some harrowing events; maybe he’ll get a chance to ask Sans about it later—but he can see important cables and wires still intact, even if they’re looking a little worn.

It really does seem like things are looking up and Papyrus can’t stop the smile that stretches onto his face.

Sans notices, “This work for you?”

“Yeah,” Papyrus says, voice breaking in the middle with some emotion he can’t hold back. He takes a moment to collect himself before continuing, “Yeah, it’s… better than I was expecting to be honest.”

“Shit. If this is _better_ , I can’t even begin to think what you must’ve been imagining.”

Papyrus laughs, “Don’t get me wrong, this is still way worse than what I had to deal with back home. It’s just… your universe has had a way of proving me wrong every time I went ‘it can’t be _that_ bad’. So, coming in here expecting the worst and getting something not completely horrible has probably been the highlight of my experience here so far.”

“Fair enough, I guess,” Sans says with a grin before peering down into a particularly busted open section of the machine, “When exactly do you plan to start working on this?”

“As soon as possible,” comes Papyrus’s instant reply, “But, uh… any chance we could get some better lighting in here?”

Sans looks around the dimly lit room with some measure of hesitance, “Um… maybe?”

“… why do you sound so unsure?”

The skeleton shrugs, “Look, between the two of us, Boss has always been the one who’s more hands-on.”

The mental image that pops up in Papyrus’s head at the phrase is likely not the kind Sans was insinuating. He can almost see the vivid picture of phalanges dancing along the lower edges of a scarred sacrum, of those same hands brushing against a hot and flushed body. He nearly chokes at the image, hurriedly trying to cast his thoughts elsewhere and desperately hoping that Sans doesn’t notice the flush that he can feel start to burn on his face.

“I’m more of a theory kinda guy, you know?”

“Uh, yeah,” He says as he tries to check back into the conversation, “I get it, I think.”

“What about you?” Sans asks.

“What… _about_ me?”

“I mean, I think it’s pretty obvious by now that things are kinda flipped around where you’re from,” Sans looks curiously up at him, “So would you say you’re hands-on or not?”

Predictably, yet another flash of imagery in his mind has him burning that much harder with a mixture embarrassment and utter mortification, “Can we… not use that term?”

“What…? What term?” Sans blinks up at him, browbone slowly dropping down into a confused frown, “You mean ‘hands-on’?”

“Yeah… that.” Papyrus says, not looking Sans in the face for fear of his expression betraying him.

Sans stares and Papyrus can feel it linger even though his gaze is still averted, “You’re fucking weird, you know that?”

Papyrus ignores his comment and turns back around to face him, attempting to continue as if nothing had interrupted, “As far as machinery and stuff goes though… I mean, I’ve always had a knack for puzzles. And I like to think of mechanical stuff kinda like an ‘advanced’ puzzle, if that makes sense. So, yeah. I’d say that I’m halfway decent at working with tech.”

“Hmm,” Sans looks thoughtful and Papyrus wonders for a brief instant if he’s thinking of his brother potentially being the same way, “Alright. Makes sense, I guess.”

“Speaking of though, if you bring me the right supplies I could probably handle the lighting in here as well.”

Sans nods, “Sure. Did you wanna head out right now or later?”

“You go on ahead,” Papyrus says as he takes a seat on the floor by the foot of the machine, “I’m gonna figure out just exactly how much work needs to be done while you’re out.”

“You’re seriously gonna work in this light?”

“I don’t want to waste any time.” He says, firm and serious as he thinks of what’s at stake, “I need to get back to my brother.”

There’s a momentary pause that follows his statement. He’s not looking at Sans so he can’t tell what sort of expression he’s making as he takes in Papyrus’s words. When the smaller skeleton speaks up again, it’s quiet and steady, not even a hint in his tone to suggest what might be on his mind.

“I’ll see you in a bit then.” He says simply.

Immediately after, Papyrus hears Sans footsteps retreat, followed by the sounds of a door closing as the other skeleton leaves.

With a heavy sigh, Papyrus turns back to the machine in front of him. In the low lighting, it’s hard to properly see the extent of the damage but he maintains that most things look readily fixable. He’s not sure what series of events in this universe led to the state it’s in in the first place but, taking into account the state of disrepair of the basement in general, he can at least see that the machine wasn’t deliberately dismantled or toyed with. Sans simply left it be. Either out of apathy or some other reason that he refuses to share with Papyrus.

Which leads him to wonder what exactly Sans’ deal with the resets is.

He didn’t say anything about it but Papyrus could very easily read a familiar weariness and hopeless fatalism in the discolouration under Sans’ sockets. Back in his own world, it had been months since the last reset. In fact, it had been the longest stretch yet that the soulless creature wearing the face of a temmie had gone without using the Underground as its plaything.

If things are truly the opposite around here, does that mean that the resets are still happening?

And if so, what happens if a reset occurs and he’s still here?

Will his alternate come back?

Will he himself be deleted from existence?

It’s a harrowing thought and Papyrus shifts uneasily where he sits, hands working through bundles of mixed up wires. He respects Sans’ need to keep secrets to himself, but this is one thing he’s determined to ask. He needs to know so that he can be prepared for the worst, should it happen. If he’s got a time limit he’s working with, he needs to know that as well.

Mind made up to bring it up when Sans seems receptive to answering, he sets himself back to the task at hand and relaxes into the careful rhythm of inspecting the machine.

Back home, it had taken him several years to figure out how to get the thing running. To be fair, the first few hadn’t exactly been concentrated efforts, but even when he sat down to really push himself though the process, it had taken him months to perfect it. A fair chunk of that time had been figuring out the theory—which he now understood to be a self-proclaimed ‘Sans thing’—and less actual work on the machine itself, but it had still meant countless hours devoted to sitting still and piecing together jumbles of seemingly unrelated information.

Now that he’s done it once already and knows which direction he should be taking, he hopes the process will speed up considerably.

He sits and cleans the machine up best as he can with the limited resources he has. He places all the broken pieces that need to be replaced into one pile and sorts the more useable pieces into another. Then he looks around for a ragged cloth and wipes down the machine as much as possible, though the dim lighting makes it hard to tell what’s grime and what’s simply shadow.

By the time the door to the basement creaks open again, he feels that the machine is already looking much better than it had been when he’d first walked in.

Sans seems to agree, judging by the low whistle he gives as he steps into clear view, “Damn.”

Papyrus feels the slightest glimmer of pride at that and he turns around to Sans with his chest slightly puffed out, “Pretty good, right?”

“Right as always, Bo—”

The abrupt way Sans cuts himself off leaves no room for mistaking what he’d just been about to say. Papyrus instantly deflates, posture slumping and smile slipping from his face. An awkward silence lingers between them.

“Umm, did you get the lights?” Papyrus says as a way to break the silence, even though he can already see the bag in Sans’ hand with the logo of some shop he doesn’t recognise and the long, white tube lights sticking out of it.

“Yeah,” Sans says as he brings the bag up to eye level, precariously knocking the tubes against each other, “The problem isn’t the lights though. It’s that the wiring all went to shit ages ago and I had no fucking clue how to fix it.”

Papyrus takes the bag from him with a nod, “Just leave that to me. I can handle it.”

Sans gives it over easily and sticks his now empty hands back into his pockets, rocking slowly back and forth on his heels. Papyrus inspects the new lights one by one and lays them out on the counter vertically so that they don’t slide off. He then turns his attention to the ceiling.

He wonders for a moment if he should bother asking Sans for a ladder or just climb up on the counter and work on the wiring from there. It might be a little less comfortable doing it that way but that way he wouldn’t have to continue pestering Sans.

They may have been on better terms, but it’s still kind of awkward speaking with him.

(Especially after this morning.)

He decides to just climb and braces himself on the counter with purpose.

“Whoa, whoa, wait, what are you doing?”

Papyrus raises a browbone at him, “Uhh, getting to work?”

“Yeah, but… don’t you think you should maybe change first?”

“Change?” Papyrus looks at him, unsure of what exactly he’s trying to get at.

Sans starts to look a little flustered, “I mean, I guess it’s not that big a deal but like… dirt and grime can be washed off, you know? If you scratch-up Boss’s armour or like crack or dent it while you’re working though…”

Papyrus looks down at his alternate’s uniform.

(Would Sans get blamed for something like that happening to his brother’s armour?

Would he be punished for it…?)

Before he can ask, Sans continues, “Look, it’s just… my brother worked really hard to make it to where he is, yeah? He takes a lot of pride in anything to do with his position, and his uniform is a big part of that. I just don’t want all that effort he puts into maintaining his gear to go to waste.”

(Oh.)

(Sans was just… looking out for his brother’s interests.)

Papyrus feels his soul twist at the look on Sans’ face. He’s always so open and earnest when he talks about his brother. It’s obvious with just a glance how much Sans cares about him. And yet, even after everything that he’s seen, he just doesn’t feel like his alternate deserves that sort of well-meaning care.

Not when he can’t give Sans the same in return.

He frowns down at his apparel, “Well, I mean, it’s not like your brother has anything _else_ I can wear in his closet.”

“Sure he does,” Sans insists, “You may have to root around a little in there, but Pap wasn’t always a guardsman you know. And it’s not like he wears this shit to bed.”

“… are you saying that you want me to work in his pajamas?”

Sans rolls his eyelights at him and snorts, “I’m just saying that he has _other clothes_ , asshole. We’ll get you something else to put on.”

With a half-smile threatening at the edges of his mouth, Papyrus can’t help but tease him a little further, “I’m still doubting that your brother has anything other than leather and steel in there, to be honest.”

Sans looks absolutely unimpressed with his assessment, “Listen. Worst come to worst, you can borrow something of mine.”

There’s a pause as Papyrus stares down at the skeleton in front of him, almost half his height from where he’s currently perched on the countertop. Then, Papyrus starts heaving with laughter, shaking so hard he nearly falls right off the workspace. He has to hold himself tight to the counter to keep his balance, sockets quickly filling with mirthful tears.

Sans glowers at him, cheekbones starting to glow a light red.

“What’s so fucking funny?” he demands.

“I—I just—” Papyrus fights hard to speak though the laughter, “Okay, putting the pants aside for a minute—any of your jackets or shirts are gonna look like a fucking crop top on me, dude! I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to give your offer a hard pass.”

“How is that any different from what you’re wearing right now?!” Sans snaps, face still glowing brightly even though Papyrus privately thinks he can see agreement flash through his eyes.

Papyrus feels the beginning of a wide, wide grin stretch across his face even as his laughter quietens down to lighter chuckles, “Heh, so you admit it then.”

Sans eyes him warily, “… admit what?”

Papyrus gives him a positively gleeful look, “You admit that your brother’s ‘Royal Guard uniform’ is just a glorified crop top.”

The way Sans starts to sputter is decidedly hilarious and Papyrus can’t stop himself from reigniting into loud, unrestrained laughter once more.

“I—that’s not what I—!” Sans tries to protest, eyes wide and blush deepening.

“Oh man, you should see the look on your face!” Papyrus guffaws, finally slipping down from the countertop and landing flat on the floor in a way that jostles his bones against each other but doesn’t stop him from his continued laughter.

“Fuck you.” Sans says, but there’s no heat to it at all. Instead, there’s a hint of a smile on his face as he says it and Papyrus is once against struck with how much better Sans looks when there’s something positive in his expression, “Fine, don’t change. Just be careful not to fuck anything up.”

Papyrus smiles back at him, but turns away quickly, careful not to stare.

He rubs carefully at his chest where his soul would appear, self-conscious with how much he now notices about his brother’s twin. He’s been trying all morning not to think about the memory he saw and, mostly, it’s been alright. It’s easy enough to put to the back of his head, distracted as he is with the machine right in front of him and the opportunity to go home closer than it’s been in what feels like ages. At the same time though, he can’t deny that he now feels more aware of Sans than ever before.

The way the small skeleton moves, the way he smiles, the way he kicks at the floor with his sneakers in lieu of anything else to do—all of that sticks instantly in his head. Everything Sans does catches his attention and he feels overwhelmed even just acknowledging it. He doesn’t know if he should feel ashamed of himself for it; Sans isn’t quite his brother but... that feels like a flimsy excuse to him at best.

It’s wrong for him to even consider Sans in such a way. Especially when it’s through knowledge he gained without Sans’ consent. Because, if he’s being honest with himself, where would this sudden alertness to Sans’ presence come from if not through the influence of his alternate’s memories?

The thought makes his soul pang with something worrisome and he tries his best to refocus, working on fixing the lights again.

(Maybe if he ignores it hard enough, it’ll fade away.)

(He’s gonna be out of this place as soon as he gets the machine fixed up anyways.

There’s no reason to try to work through or parse his feelings when it’ll pass by quick enough.)

(There is absolutely _no reason_ to dwell on it.)

“You—” Sans says and it startles Papyrus even though the smaller skeleton seems to cut himself off in some choked up form of hesitance. When he starts speaking again, he’s cautious, “You need any help?”

Papyrus throws him a look over his shoulder, “No, I—

— _don’t need your help, Sans. I’m perfectly **capable** of handling this on my own.” Papyrus gripes, pulling his clothes out of Sans’ hands. His face is burning with embarrassment but Sans is still smiling, “Aw, lighten up, Pap. It’s no big deal.” “If it’s not a big deal, then just let me do it myself!” He hisses, bundling his clothes up and protectively holding them to his chest. “It’s just a few rips, Pap. I’ll stitch ‘em up quick for you. It’ll be—” “I’m **fine** , Sans! Why are you so persistent about sticking yourself where you’re **not wanted**_ —

“—a-actually,” Papyrus forces out, gripping tight onto the countertop to keep himself from falling in light of the sudden memory, “Do you… want to maybe put the lights in while I deal with the wiring? We’ll, uh… we’ll probably get it done faster that way.”

The way Sans lights up at the request for his help makes Papyrus soul ache is the worst way, “Yeah, sure, Bo—I mean, yeah, of course.”

Once again, he ignores the slip-up. Instead, Sans hops up on the counter with him and they both get to work.

It’s not long before the lights are up and working properly. They turn on with a single flick of a switch, white light washing over the room and making Papyrus squint to adjust, eyes having gotten used to the darkness. Sans hops off the counter and brushes himself off and Papyrus does the same.

They both stand side-by-side in a lab that now looks much more familiar to him, properly lit and hastily cleaned.

Papyrus turns his attention back to the machine.

In the brighter light, Papyrus can clearly see every inch of what’s wrong with the thing. It’s worn down and ugly—fallen into clear disuse.

Still, it’s salvageable and he’s immensely grateful for that.

(It’s all he has.)

While Sans stands back, Papyrus sits near the foot of the machine again and begins to properly take stock of the major changes he’ll need to make. As he does so, Sans continues to simply stand in place, awkwardly shifting around with nothing to do. Papyrus would ask him to help but he has no idea of what Sans is or is not familiar with. It also doesn’t help that he’s so used to working alone that he’s not sure how to share the workload.

Still, it makes him feel awful to stay silent and not offer anything when Sans is here trying to help him. Even if all he has to offer is conversation, he supposes it’s the least he can do.

“Some members of the Guard came by today.” He says conversationally, reaching to untangle some wires in the depth of the machine.

“What?” Sans says, instantly alert, “Did Undyne send them?”

Papyrus shakes his head, and turns his head back over his shoulder, “You remember that monster that attacked you the other night?”

Sans gives a frown paired with a firm nod.

“Well, he survived.” Sans’ expression freezes at that and Papyrus finds himself rushing to continue before the small skeleton can panic, “He came to the house flanked by two other guards. Dog monsters. A couple—or, I mean, at least they were in my universe.”

Sans’ expression morphs into one of confusion, “Dogamy and ‘Ressa?”

Papyrus is relieved to see the way Sans’ shoulders relax just the slightest bit at the mention of the couple.

He nods, still watching Sans as he absently detangles the wires in his hands, “Yeah. Apparently, the monster was some sort of family to them. Part of their pack or something, I guess.”

“What’d they come for?”

“To, uh… thank me for sparing him.”

Sans sockets go wide, “To _thank_ you?”

Papyrus hums in confirmation.

“Huh. That’s new.”

Papyrus turns back around to the machine so that Sans can’t see the expression on his face in light of his surprise, “Why? Your brother not on good terms with them?”

“No, not really,” Sans says easily and Papyrus grits his teeth, his instinctual dislike of his counterpart threatening to make him say something scathing, “But, I mean, he isn’t on _bad_ terms with them either. He’s their commanding officer, you know? They maintain a pretty professional relationship.”

Papyrus gives a noncommittal grunt, trying to refocus on the work at hand.

(Why is it always that the slightest mention of his twin’s sour personality ruins his mood?)

(Why does it never fail to piss him off?)

“The Dogs are always good to have on your side,” Sans muses from where he stands, “They’re loyal to a fault.”

Papyrus doesn’t offer up a response, pulling at a loose panel on the machine in an effort to get to the machinery behind it.

It doesn’t budge.

Papyrus grips tightly onto it from both sides, pulling as hard as he can.

“I mean it was mostly a fluke, but nice work getting them in your debt, Bo—”

— _ss, I don’t know about this.” Sans shuffles **uneasily** after him and Papyrus sighs, slamming the cabinet shut. Sans flinches at the sound but doesn’t move when Papyrus turns around to face him. “Then it's a good thing that I’m the only one between the two of us that ever has to know anything.” He hisses, **withering** and **caustic**. “But—” “ **Sans**.” He says, stern as ever, but his brother remains tense. He sighs heavily and reaches out with a hand. Sans goes stiff till Papyrus cups the side of his face and smoothly strokes his brother’s skull. “Let me handle it.” Sans hesitates, looks like he still wants to argue. But, when Papyrus leans down to **kiss** him, he doesn’t pull away to voice his concerns. Instead, when they finally separate from each other, Sans meets his eyes with **resignation** , “If you say so, **Boss**.”_

The panel wrenches off and the force of it pulling free knocks Papyrus back. With his hands shaking as badly as they are, the panel clatters to the floor.

The sound of it hitting the tile is loud in the sudden silence.

There’s an unmistakeable tenseness in the air and the quiet that surrounds them does nothing to diffuse the situation.

Sans shifts uncomfortably, “Look, I—”

“Stop calling me that.”

The cut of his words comes rougher and more forbidding than he intends but he supposes it’s just as well to carry the force behind the message he wants to send.

The silence between them grows thicker.

Papyrus doesn’t turn around, not sure he can school his expression to be anything other than a complicated mess of distress and revulsion, “I’m not your, ‘ _Boss_ ’.”

Neither of them moves an inch.

Sans gives a small, nervous laugh and even just that hesitance in him—like he’s scared of voicing his opinion—makes Papyrus feel even more upset, “Well, I mean, considering the fact that you’re in Boss’s body, you kinda—”

“I’m _not_ him,” The vehemence with which he says it surprises even Papyrus himself and a stray thought pings through his mind telling him that maybe Sans isn’t the only one he’s trying to convince, “I would _never_ do the things he does.”

He finally looks back again and meets Sans’ gaze, holds contact with firm resolve, “ _Don’t_ call me that.”

Another lengthy lull in conversation follows.

Then Sans sighs, looking off to the side, eyes tired and weary, “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

And it’s funny how the wounded tone of his voice already has Papyrus’s furious indignation turning into awful, awful guilt.

“You can say that ‘you’re not him’ all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re literally wearing his body,” Sans continues, quiet but unwavering, “It doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a Papyrus either. No matter what sort of universe you say you’re from.”

Papyrus doesn’t say anything, mute as Sans speaks, his soul feeling heavy and low.

“Believe it or not, I’m actually fucking _trying_ , you know? But it’s not exactly the easiest thing for me to keep separate when you look and sound exactly like him.”

And somewhere inside of him, Papyrus knows that makes sense.

He gets that.

He _understands_.

But it _still_ doesn’t stop that sick, coiling feeling in his soul every time Sans slips up and treats him like his brother.

So, he doesn’t acknowledge the feeling out loud, doesn’t say a word to Sans about it at all.

Instead, he turns back to the machine and ignores it. Ignores the heavy sigh Sans gives in response to his avoidance as well, soul pounding painfully with remorse.

He doesn’t miss Sans’ mumbled, “You’re not all that different from him when it comes down to it anyways.”

And, somehow, just that statement hurts worse than any physical blow.

(Because…

… he’s right, isn’t he?)

Papyrus may not be exactly like his counterpart, but he’s been ignoring Sans in favour of what’s best for himself since he got here. He’s been concerned about Sans—of _course_ he has. But he’s seen enough of his counterpart’s memories by now to glean that his alternate had been concerned as well. Had even been concerned enough to take action but, only ever in a way that benefited himself.

(And how has what he’s been doing any different in that regard?)

Footsteps clack on the tiles and Papyrus doesn’t turn as they get progressively further and further away from him, eventually fading to silence.

He almost thinks Sans is already gone when the skeleton speaks up again.

“It looks like you’ve pretty much got this handled,” He says, voice carefully devoid of any telling emotion, “’Sides, there’s not much I can help out with here in the first place. So, I’m gonna head back upstairs. Holler if y’need me.”

Papyrus hears the click of the door as it shuts.

He lets his shoulders sag with a sigh.

He wonders if this’ll ever start getting a little easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter should be out on the 5th and the one after that on the 9th B) B) B)
> 
> they are literally already written and just need to be edited so if they don't get posted on those days, feel free to kick my ass into gear and pester me till i post them
> 
> i wanna get at least 5 or 6 of the chapters i wrote during nano out this month so,,,!!!!! here's hoping december goes well B'D


	13. Chapter 13

It takes Papyrus until his phalanges start trembling enough to drop the screwdriver in his hands to think that maybe he’s been working too long. He’s not quite ready to call it quits—not when he has the answer to all his problems quite literally at his fingertips—but when he picks up the screwdriver and only manages to drop it once more, he takes it as a sign that maybe taking a break now would lead to more productivity in the long run.

He gets up with a sigh and his bones very nearly creak with the effort, so used to being kept in more or less the same position for hours on end. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling to him—the days before he first arrived here were much the same, countless hours spent working on the machine. Here he figures he only feels wearier because of the additional emotional exhaustion that’s plagued him from the very first day.

Knowing the source of his troubles doesn’t make handling it any easier though, and Papyrus very nearly drags his feet as he heads out of the lab.

Sans wasn’t exactly _mad_ or anything with him when he left, but Papyrus figures it’s best to tiptoe around him anyway. He doesn’t want to shatter the fragile peace and tentative friendship they’ve formed by saying something out-of-line. Especially when they’re both clearly trying to make the best of a shitty situation.

Once outside the lab, he firmly seals it behind him with the key Sans gave him earlier on. Then, feeling somehow even _more_ tired now that he was outside, he simply teleported straight into the house instead of expending the effort to walk to the front door and walking in from there. The short jump still leaves him a little disoriented, as exhausted as he is, and Papyrus stumbles a little as he lands on the worn-out carpet of the living room. He holds a hand out against the couch to steady himself then starts when he takes note of his surroundings.

The lights are all off.

“Uhh…” He looks around, guard instantly up, “Sans…? You home?”

He waits a moment for a response before repeating his call for his brother’s twin.

When there’s still no answer to greet him, he straightens up and lets his magic simmer lowly, keeping it at the ready. He stalks quietly through the room, peering into the kitchen. He debates leaving the lights off downstairs before flicking them on anyway.

If it comes to fight, he’d rather see what he’s doing that rely on the element of surprise to help him any.

A quick search through the first floor shows no signs of anyone nor any signs of a struggle. While that should be reassuring, all it does is make an uneasy sense of foreboding push through him. With soul pounding rapid-fire in his chest, Papyrus ascends the stairs. Not a step creaks as he walks up, careful and slow.

When he reaches the top of the landing, he stares at his alternate’s shut door with a pause. He’s most worried about Sans but it wouldn’t do to skip over his counterpart’s room to get to his and then get attacked from behind. So, he gives a single lingering glance down the hallway at Sans’ room before turning and twisting the doorknob to his twin’s.

The lights are off here as well.

He flicks them on with his left hand, the right busy sparking with the loose energy of his magic as it builds.

They turn on harmlessly.

His alternate’s room is as it always is—neat, clean and not a thing out of place.

Except.

There’s something laid out on his counterpart’s bed.

Papyrus approaches cautiously and quickly sees that it’s an outfit sorted onto the mattress. Confused, he frowns and leans closer to inspect it, only to catch sight of a sticky note stuck to one of the articles of clothing. He carefully unsticks it from the garment its attached to and brings it up to read.

‘ _no food at home. went out to get some._ ’

It’s not signed but he’d seen the same handwriting earlier in the lab so there’s no mistaking that it’s Sans’, no matter how much messier and rushed it is compared to his brother’s neat script.

All at once, he relaxes.

They’re not in any danger. Sans just isn’t home.

Feeling immediately reassured, he takes a seat on the mattress with an easy slump, letting his defensive magic fade away and his body relax. Relieved, he smiles down at the sticky note once more. It’s actually a little weird to see it here—strangely nostalgic in a way, even though it hasn’t been all that long since his last little note ‘argument’ with his bro.

He snickers to himself at the thought of it.

His brother was a stickler for keeping things clean and orderly but, sometimes, due to his energetic, never-sits-still-for-even-a-minute personality, he tended to overlook things. One such time was when Sans had accidentally left one of his socks in the living room. Naturally, instead of picking it up, Papyrus had done the responsible thing and stuck a sticky note on it.

‘pick up your sock, sans.’

And his brother, bless his soul, had taken the opportunity to leave one of his own.

‘OKAY!’

Amusingly enough, in his quest to dutifully answer Papyrus, he’d forgotten to actually do what he’d said he would.

‘your sock is still here, bro. you picking it up anytime soon?’

‘ _OKAY!!!!!_ ’ Came the huffy, exclamation ridden answer.

Only, in order for Papyrus to actually _see_ the answering note, Sans had left the sock it was attached to right where it was.

‘then how come you still haven’t done it yet?’

‘OKAY, SMART GUY. IF YOU SAW IT THERE, WHY DIDN’T _YOU_ JUST PICK IT UP YOURSELF?!’

‘it’s not _my_ sock.’

And so on and so on till the sock was so littered with sticky notes that he had no doubt his brother had forgotten it was even there in the first place.

Seeing one here now, hits him in a way he doesn’t expect.

He’s wanted to get back home since the moment he discovered just what had happened when he got here, but the sticky note makes him ache for that normalcy of his day-to-day life with a bitter sting. It’s enough to bring make his vision go blurry, tears gathering in his sockets.

He misses Sans so much.

“Shit.” Papyrus hastily wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

His counterpart’s leather gloves do little to mop up the tears but they at least help brush them off to the side so that he can pretend he’s as put together as he was a moment ago.

He tries to recompose himself, straightening up. He gives the sticky note one, last, lingering look before he puts it aside.

He turns his attention back towards the clothes Sans has laid out for him instead.

The thing that catches his sight immediately is a bright, yellow t-shirt. It’s simple and plain, no lettering, embroidery or marks of any sort. The size of it seems to suggest it’s definitely something owned by his twin and not from Sans’ own collection of clothing. Papyrus stares at it with more than a little awe—it’s a brighter colour than _anything_ he expected his alternate to own.

Right next to it on the bed is a hoodie.

It’s plain black with a shiny silver zipper down the front of it and simple little pockets on either side. Its sleeves have either been shorn off or it was bought that way, looking a little less like a full-on hoodie and more like a vest with a hood attached at the back. Looking at it, Papyrus can tell that this item at least belongs to Sans. It’ll barely reach the bottom of his ribs he figures that Sans probably expects him to throw it on on-top of the t-shirt rather than wear it on its own.

Papyrus drags his gaze down to the next article of clothing.

They’re a pair of slim black pants and Papyrus stares at them wryly. There’s no doubt here that these belong to his alternate. Even without taking the length into consideration, it’s obvious just by looking at them. They’re _tight_ —the type of fabric that’ll cling to his bones. At a glance, he thinks they might perhaps be even more closely tailored than the uniform pants that are part of his counterpart’s everyday outfit. They have various rips and tears along the fabric, done in an artful sort of way that assures Papyrus it’s not from wear and tear but, rather, done with fashion in mind.

Yet another difference between himself and his alternate—Papyrus couldn’t even be bothered to _change_ most days, let alone _dress-up_.

He’d also much prefer a pair of shorts but, well. He supposes that those’re something that his alternate must not own.

… then again, maybe Sans just assumed he’d prefer pants?

He’d have to ask him sometime.

Papyrus fixes his gaze back on the outfit which brings him, finally, to the last item laid out for him.

A pair of bright, red, runners rest on the floor at the foot of the bed.

If he had to take a guess, he’d venture that these were Sans’ as well, mostly because his alternate seemed to prefer combat boots and anything heeled to more casual footwear. Back home, the only times Papyrus had ever worn boots were when it rained and he stole Sans’ rainboots so his sneakers wouldn’t get soggy in the mixture of rain and snow. The slush didn’t bother him exactly, but his brother was never happy with him dragging the elements back indoors with him if he came home wet.

Right now, the runners are a blessing.

He’s looking forward to being able to slouch his posture a little.

He looks back at the outfit as a whole once more.

It was thoughtful of Sans to lay these all out for him like this. It… probably came mostly from the need to make sure his brother’s uniform wasn’t damaged, but some part of Papyrus wants to believe that he had Papyrus’s comfort in mind too. After all, he could’ve just pulled out any old thing and told him to wear it, but the clothes themselves seem meticulously put together. Nothing too old or worn and all easily put together.

It’s nice.

Papyrus feels a swell of fondness raise at the thought of Sans picking this out for him.

He lets a small smile linger on his face before finally getting up off the mattress. He strips out of the armour with some effort but wastes no time changing into the clothes laid out for him. Sure enough, Sans’ hoodie just skims the bottom of his floating ribs and Papyrus grins at little at the sight. But still, the light weight of the material spreading over his shoulders is welcoming and familiar, reminding Papyrus of his own hoodies back home and he can’t stop himself from sinking into the feel of it.

He’s glad Sans gave this to him.

Papyrus looks down at the runner for a moment, considering, before pulling them on as well.

Back home, neither him nor his brother ever wore shoes inside the house, but here he’s already seen Sans do so several times.

Another small difference between their worlds he supposes.

He’s just finishing lacing them up when he hears the front door open.

Papyrus slowly makes his way out of the room and back down the stairs, just catching the fluff of Sans’ hood as it disappears into the kitchen. He jumps down the last two steps and walks in the same direction, making sure to keep his steps loud enough that Sans will hear him before he comes in.

The last thing he wants to do is startle the guy.

“Hey.” Sans calls as he enters the kitchen, not turning around from the brown bags marked with Grillby’s logo as he pulls the contents from within them.

“Hey, yourself.” Papyrus calls back, walking in closer now that he has tacit permission, “You got Grillby’s, huh? Is he… uhh…”

Sans casts an eye back at him briefly before snorting, “Is he, what? Still mad?”

Papyrus just nods his head.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Sans assures as he grabs out what looks like two wrapped up burgers before tossing everything else into the fridge, “Grillbz and I have been what amounts to ‘friends’ down here for ages. It’s gonna take more than a few coarse words and broken bottles to ruin something like that.”

Sans passes a burger to him and Papyrus accepts it, watching dimly as Sans proceeds to unwrap his own. The smaller skeleton then sticks his hand into his pockets and pulls out a bunch of small packets labelled ‘Mustard’ in large, blocky font. He tears them open with his sharp teeth, one after the other, and proceeds to drench the inside of his burger with the condiment.

Watching it almost makes Papyrus feel a little queasy.

There’s no _way_ that tastes good.

He slowly unwraps his own burger as Sans starts to chew down on his.

Unbidden, the question falls from his teeth, “Did you really sleep with him to pay off your tab?”

He watches as Sans nearly chokes on his burger. Papyrus can understand the feeling. Already he can feel his face heating up, horrified as he is with his own question.

(Why the _fuck_ can’t he keep his stupid mouth shut?)

Sans is flushing, red cast onto his cheekbones, “Uhh—”

“Sorry,” Papyrus throws his hands up placatingly, bits of lettuce falling off his burger as it wrenches upwards in his grip, “That’s… that’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s fine, I don’t really care,” Sans laughs but his amusement is still mixed with obvious embarrassment, and his expression still a little twisted up, “It’s, uh… I mean, _yeah_ , I did.”

“Oh.” Papyrus says and admonishes himself again for asking in the first place, because what was he even supposed to do with that information? It did him no good to know anything like that—didn’t change a thing. Except that now there’s an awful look on Sans’ face like he feels like he has to explain himself.

“I mean it… it was a mutual thing, you know? Something stupid we came up with on the rare occasion that Grillby let me stay after closing and we ended up getting smashed together. Besides, it’s not like we ever did it all that often anyways,” Something defensive sneaks into Sans’ posture and Papyrus gets the image of Sans explaining the same thing to his brother forever ago, “A-and I don’t… I haven’t done it in ages. Not since Boss…”

Sans goes quiet for a moment.

“… not since my brother expressed his distaste with that state of affairs.”

Papyrus doesn’t interrupt, only offers a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement.

“Grillbz got a little annoyed at that, but he gets that Pap always comes first for me so…” Sans trails off with a whisper.

More silence follows.

“It’s really not that big a deal.” The small skeleton shrugs his shoulders carelessly but Papyrus can see that his blush has yet to fade.

“Okay,” he says in lieu of anything of substance, biting down into his own burger and hoping having a full mouth will keep him from making any more stupid comments, “Thanks for, uh… sharing.”

Sans laughs, this time sounding genuinely amused and raising a browbone at him with a grin, “You’re welcome, I guess.”

They slip into a more companionable silence than before, eating their respective burgers quietly. Papyrus has to admit that the food is pretty good, though he’s always preferred sugary foods to grease. He’s almost done his burger when Sans’ speaks up again through a mouthful of his own food.

“Oh shit, I almost forgot.” he says as he starts to dig around in his pocket, mustard smeared against the side of his mouth. Papyrus stares at it, wanting to reach out and clear it away. He only just manages to hold himself back with a prickle of embarrassment.

(Sans isn’t a kid.

He can wipe it off himself.)

“Here.” Sans says and Papyrus looks down to see him offering up a cellphone.

He gingerly takes it into his hand, “What… is this?”

“It’s Boss’s cellphone,” Sans explains as he finishes off the last of his burger and licks at his phalanges till they’re clean, “I figured that maybe I should give it to you so that you could keep in touch. That way it’d be easier if you needed me or something, since you could call or text.”

Papyrus nods and presses a phalange down on the only visible button.

A lockscreen pops up, the background wallpaper a simple gradient of black to red with small white text overlaid letting him know the time and date.

Papyrus stares at it for a moment before holding it up for Sans to see, “What’s the passcode?”

“I don’t know.” Sans shrugs, unconcerned.

“I—what—” Papyrus gives Sans a look, “How the fuck am I supposed to use it then?”

“You’re basically my brother, aren’t you? I’m sure it’s something easy enough for you to figure out.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m not—” Papyrus lets out a frustrated little huff, “I think we’ve established by now that your brother and I have some key differences.”

“Sure, but there’s a lot that’s the same too.” At the withering look Papyrus casts his way, Sans sighs, “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to help, but I gotta get to work. Honestly speaking, I was planning on dropping by Alphys’ to get her to unlock it for you but I didn’t have the time. So, I just thought I’d let you test out a few combos or something that come to mind. If you haven’t figured it out by the time I come back, it’s no big deal. I’ll just get Alphys to have a whack at it later.”

Papyrus adjust his grip on the phone and continues to glare down at the little screen asking him to enter a four-digit number, “You realise that there are literally hundreds of possible combinations to this thing that I’d have to go through, right?”

“Yeah, but I know Boss and I _know_ he wouldn’t just use a random string of numbers,” Sans assures, “It’s gotta mean something to him.”

Papyrus gives Sans a slow lookover, “…when’s your birthday?”

Sans blinks at him.

Once, twice.

Then he bursts out into loud, uproarious laughter, “The answer’s not gonna be my birthday, dude.”

“Yeah, I guess not…” Papyrus sighs wearily, rubbing at his skull in frustration, “You really don’t know his passcode?”

“Not a clue,” Sans chirps, “I respect his privacy.”

“Sure, because he does such a great job respecting yours, right?” Papyrus grumbles under his breath.

Unfortunately, it’s not low enough to go unheard by Sans. The skeleton tenses instantly upon hearing it slip from Papyrus’s mouth. He’s frowning now, all ease and glimmering amusement gone from his expression. He fixes Papyrus with a worn look.

“Listen—”

Papyrus cuts him off, already feeling guilty enough without Sans’ words trying to explain to him what he already knows.

(Sans loves his brother.

Sans will defend him no matter what.)

“I know, I know,” Papyrus sighs, “I told you I wouldn’t say shit like that anymore. My bad.”

There’s a moment of hesitance where it looks like Sans still wants to say something. But the expression on his face fades and Sans simply sighs instead, “Alright, well… I gotta head to work.”

Papyrus nods at him and moves off to the side so that he’s not blocking the way out of the kitchen. He turns around to face the doorway but after a second passes and he doesn’t see the smaller skeleton pass in front of him while leaving, he turns back around and to see Sans staring at him. Before he can even find his voice to ask what’s wrong, Sans walks up to him and comes in close, hands reaching out towards him.

Papyrus barely manages to hold back a yelp of surprise as Sans grabs onto the top edges of the hoodie he’s wearing, automatically tugging him down a couple inches. Sans rubs his phalanges absently against the fabric, eyes discerning as they look him over. Papyrus can feel the beginnings of a flush rise to his face but the smaller skeleton doesn’t seem to notice at all. Instead, he seems focused on taking in the image of Papyrus in these new clothes.

He tries not to shiver under the weight of Sans’ gaze as the skeleton practically drinks in the sight of him, eyelights flickering all the way over his form.

“Perfect for Snowdin… ‘specially with all the dogs around…” Sans mumbles to himself, and the only reason Papyrus even hears it is because Sans has him pulled so close. He goes quiet for a bit, still half-stroking at the fabric of the hoodie and making Papyrus fight off the rushing magic to his face. When he finally speaks up again, his voice is hushed with the slightest hint of surprise, “Looks good on you.”

There’s absolutely no reason for that statement to affect him at all.

Absolutely none.

But Papyrus feels like he might spontaneously combust where he stands anyway.

(God, what is _wrong_ with him?)

The words, combined with Sans’ closeness, make Papyrus shiver in a way that he can’t hold back and it runs down his spine with an unmistakeable tremor.

Sans mistakes it for discomfort, “Oh. Sorry.”

Sans steps away from him and Papyrus feels both relieved and suddenly bereft. If Sans notices the flush no doubt lighting up his face, he says nothing of it. He simply sticks his hands back in his pockets and scuffs his sneakers against the tile.

After another awkward second of silence, he offers Papyrus a stilted smile, “Welp. Bye, I guess.”

And with a pop, he disappears.

(Right.

Sans could do that too.)

(He’d forgotten.)

Papyrus relaxes from his suddenly rigid posture, slumps back against the counter and brings a hand up to his chest. His soul is beating hard against his ribcage. Just the feel of its magic underneath his phalanges has him flushing all over again.

(Fuck.)

(He’s _such_ an idiot.)

Shaking his head firmly to clear his thoughts, he grips his new-found phone tighter in his hands and makes his way out of the kitchen and back up the stairs. Upon entering his alternate’s room again, he flops straight down into the mattress, soft pillows rushing up to meet his face. He groans into them in frustration, wallowing for a moment before flipping back around.

He lays there for a bit, his limbs splayed out loosely in every direction while staring up at the ceiling.

He might as well admit it to himself at this point.

He likes Sans.

He likes Sans more than he _should_ like Sans.

He doesn’t know if the feelings are some lingering sentiment from the memories he was privy to from his alternate, or actual feelings of his own but… in the end, he supposes it doesn’t matter. Especially since, at this point, he has no proper way to separate the two. He knows, at least, that some of the affection is genuinely his own—it’s a strange mixture of brotherly fondness when he catches similarities between this Sans and his own and something… decidedly _different_.

Papyrus can’t pinpoint exactly when they started but there’s no denying that the feelings are there.

But there’s also no denying that nothing can ever come from it.

Besides the fact that Sans is still essentially his _brother_ , Papyrus doesn’t plan on staying in this universe anyway. Why bother wasting time on a stupid crush that likely isn’t even a result of his own feelings in the first place when he knew it was bound to end in disaster? And it’s not as if Sans cares about _him_ in the slightest.

He’s just as eager for Papyrus to leave as he is.

Maybe even _more_.

(It’s pointless.)

(He—

… he doesn’t want to think about it anymore.)

He shakes his head, squeezing his sockets shut like it’ll help block out his thoughts. With little flourish, he brings up his hand to his face instead.

The phone Sans had given him is clenched tightly in his grasp. He stares at it for a second before bringing it closer with a sigh and pressing down on the single button at the front. Once again, the lockscreen flashes up at him.

All he has to do is enter four little digits, but he can’t for the _life_ of him think of what they may be. With a desperate sort of hope, he tries closing his eyes again and reaching out for a memory to help him. As per usual though, the ability fails him when he actually wants something from it. Nothing tugs at him or seems familiar enough to pull him into a vision of his alternate’s past, and Papyrus reopens his sockets with another lengthy sigh.

He’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.

Despite what Sans said to him earlier, the first guess he makes is Sans’ birthday—or, at least, his birthday as Papyrus knows it. But as Sans had predicted, the phone vibrates in negative. Forced to try something different, Papyrus attempts putting in his _own_ birthday.

That, too, has no effect.

He sits there for the next few minutes, trying various combinations and mixtures of his and his brother’s birthdays on the chance that those are flipped around in this universe as well. Unfortunately, he gets nothing for his troubles but timed-lock outs before he can try another code. He moves onto random patterns of numbers that appeal to him next, but that too proves to be a fruitless endeavor. When the phone locks him out for yet another period of waiting before he can try a passcode again, Papyrus considers chucking the thing to the ground in a fit of frustration.

Instead, he settles for tossing it softly beside him on the mattress and throwing a hand over his face in resignation.

As he moves to do so however, he catches sight of the pile of armour he’d shucked off and placed carelessly to the side this morning.

Papyrus nearly smacks himself for his own denseness.

(Because, what _else_ could matter more to his alternate than the official day he was inducted into the guard?)

He doesn’t actually know the date itself—and yet again, the memories do nothing to help—but he thinks he can make a decent guess based on his own brother’s experience with the Royal Guard. His Sans may not officially be a part of anything yet, but there were set days that Alphys held official tryouts that Sans went to after weeks and weeks of training in between. Papyrus figures one of those might’ve have been a success for the Guard-obsessed skeleton of this universe.

He's confident about the idea until the first two dates he tries are a total miss. Neither of them work and lock him out from another try for a couple minutes. It’s disheartening, but he tries again anyway, determined to put down every date he knows if he has to until something works. To his absolute giddiness though, when he enters the third date, there’s the sound of a click as the lockscreen fades away.

Papyrus is left with a gloriously unlocked phone in his grasp.

(Heh.

Third time’s the charm.)

(For both him _and_ his alternate it seemed.)

He sits up with sudden eagerness, excited to see what sorts of secrets his counterpart’s phone may contain. He’s mildly disappointed when the home screen shows only a few basic apps against the same gradient-ed background, but he swipes through the pages to see if there’s anything else of interest. He holds back a laugh as he spots the surprising collection of puzzle games grouped up in a folder.

He… actually ends up spending a couple further minutes ‘testing out’ a few of them before closing out of that folder as well.

Next, Papyrus makes his way over to the notes his alternate has kept only to find that nearly all of them are either work-related or lists of chores. The ones that are not either of the two make next to no sense to him. They’re just jotted down names or numbers with presumably no meaning to anyone but the monster who wrote them in the first place.

He exits out of that after a bit as well.

Papyrus considers checking his counterpart’s messages next, but that seems private in a way that he’s not sure he’s quite ready to take on. Despite the fact that he’s been seeing his twin’s memories for days now, this is actually something he’d be _actively_ invading on his own so he leaves it. Maybe there’ll come a point where his curiosity overpowers his instinctual need to courteous but, until then, he won’t touch them.

Instead, he flicks into the photos.

Once again, it’s filled with nothing but presumably work-related shenanigans. There are pictures of signs and captured monsters and well-polished traps that Papyrus can only assume his alternate maintains himself. There are also quite a few photos of a fluffy, white dog in a tag-less spiked collar, though all of them are blurry. It’s almost as if his counterpart had tried to take a picture in the midst of a crime taking place and failed horribly.

The idea of it makes him laugh—the image of his alternate stomping his foot in frustration as yet again a small, fluffy animal escapes from him funnier than it has any right to be.

He supposes he can feel a little comradery in that at least, since he had his own abominable little fur-ball back home to deal with. Mostly though, it was Sans that did the yelling and chasing after it.

He’s still reminiscing over this when he scrolls straight past an image that almost makes his soul seize up in his chest. His phalange feels frozen over the screen even as he uses it to scroll back. Quickly enough, he’s greeted by two, tiny thumbnails right next to each other depicting some very familiar skeletons.

He presses the first one.

It’s old.

It seems to be a picture taken _of_ a picture, if the quality of it is anything to go by.

His counterpart is young in it, likely no older than ten, vivid red stripes across his sweater. There’s a bright, free grin painting his face, lighting up the entire frame with the pure joy in it. His alternate is not looking at the camera. Instead, his gaze is a little off to his right, where Sans is pressed up against him, arm thrown around his shoulders. His smile is wide and unmistakeably happy.

Papyrus feels his soul twist at the sight of both of them.

There’s a lot he doesn’t care for when it comes to his counterpart, but it’s getting harder and harder to deny that there’s some measure of love there no matter what he does.

(And that just makes it that much worse, doesn’t it?

That he could love his brother and still do such awful, despicable things to him?)

He grits his teeth and flicks away from the photo to the next one.

This shot only has Sans in it.

He’s sleeping, sitting at what Papyrus recognises as the sentry post closest to the Ruins. His head is tucked into his arms and his hood is up over his head. It leaves his skull framed with the fluff of his hood, leaving him looking haloed with it, peaceful and serene. Sans’ mouth hangs just slightly open, and Papyrus swears he can almost hear the softest of his—

— _snores as he sleeps away his shift without a care in the world. Papyrus pockets his phone with a sigh. He strides carefully up to his brother, reaches down with a hand intent on wrenching the hood back and startling him awake. **But**. Sans has been up every night this week for some stupid, god-forsaken reason. **Screaming** like someone’s cut him open till Papyrus shakes him hard enough to knock some sense back into him. No matter the anger, no matter the threats, Sans just does not seem capable of sleeping peacefully through the night. So, when he sees him like this now… sleeping so deeply… He scoffs and shakes his head, “It’s fucking **dangerous**.” He reaches back down to wake him anyway. Still… he does it as **carefully** as he can, the tips of his gloves just barely brushing against his brother’s face_ —

The phone is ringing.

Papyrus fumbles with it in his grasp, swiping at the accept button just a second too late.

‘ _1 Missed Call from Captain Undyne_ ’ flashes up across the screen.

Papyrus stares at it with a rising feeling of trepidation and unease.

(What could Undyne possibly want from him?)

As it turns out, he doesn’t actually have to wait very long for an answer because a text pops in a second later. Papyrus clicks on the alert and it takes him to his twin’s message history with the militant version of his best friend.

Papyrus looks immediately down at the most recent text.

‘are you fucking IGNORING my calls, lieutenant?!’

(Welp.)

He’s wracking his brain for some kind of appropriate response when the next texts shoots in.

‘I’m heading to Alphys’ in Hotland.’

And before he can even think to respond to _that_ , two others come in quick succession.

‘you better get your boney ass over there asap or else!!!’

‘GOT IT, ASSHOLE??’

(And hey,

how could he possibly say no to a sweet ol’ request like that?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pap engages in a little more self-discovery ;) ;)
> 
> also, clothes-sharing b/c i love that trope B'D
> 
> SEE Y'ALL ON FRIDAY!!!!!!! tho actually, i'm also in the process of moving so the next chapter might come out over the weekend instead hhhhhHHHH no later than that tho, otherwise the previous offer of kicking my ass into gear still applies lmfao


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while editing, i added like a huge chunk of words?????? so please welcome the longest chapter yet jfc

It doesn’t take him very long to prepare.

Undyne hadn’t mentioned anything in specific about what they’d be doing but Papyrus figures that bringing his armour along is probably the standard when going to meet the Captain of the Royal Guard. Still, Hotland is, well, fucking _hot_ to put it lightly, and he’s not going to change if he doesn’t have to. So, he searches through his alternate’s room till he finds a bag large enough to shove it all into. Then, shrugging the bag over one shoulder, he makes his way down the stairs.

As he does so, he also flicks through the phone to find Sans’ number since it seems like this would be the exact sort of situation to use it and let him know where he’ll be.

Except.

His alternate doesn’t seem to _have_ Sans’ number at all.

Papyrus blinks at the phone and scrolls through the contacts again.

And again.

And _again_.

But each look-over fails to produce any results.

At this point, he’s gone through his twin’s list of contacts at least four times—not particularly hard considering that there’s not all that many people _on it_ in the first place—and there’s no indication of Sans anywhere in the list.

He’s searched for him by name, by ‘brother’ and even by a number of increasingly awful insults that leave him feeling like a prick for even thinking them up in the first place, but none of them turn up anything that could even _remotely_ suggest that the contact information provided is Sans. Frustrated, Papyrus swipes into the messages—privacy be damned—and tries to look for texts between the brothers there. He knows that there should be _something_ considering the easy way Sans had told him to call or text like it was something he did with his ‘Boss’ all the time but, even here, there’s no sign of any correspondence at all.

It’s like all record of Sans has been wiped clear off the phone.

(Well. Besides the pictures anyway.)

It’s annoying but there’s nothing to do for it and Undyne is waiting for him, so Papyrus clicks the phone off with a sigh and pockets it.

He readjusts the bag on his shoulder and makes his way into the kitchen. He looks around for a second and then walks forward to pull open a drawer, sifting around in it till he finds what he’s looking for. With some measure of triumph, he pulls out a little pad of sticky notes and a pen.

(It's nice to know that at least _some_ things stay in the same place no matter _what_ the universe.)

‘undyne called me to come see her in hotland.’ He writes, ‘see you when i see you.’

With a bit of hesitance, he signs it as well, ‘- papyrus’

If Sans says he’s trying not to think of him as his Boss but that it’s difficult to keep them separate in his head, he should at least do his part to provide little reminders from time to time.

(Though, with both of them having the same name, he supposes that the success of the gesture is debatable.)

With little flourish, he sticks the note to the front of the TV.

… then he writes three more of the exact same message and sticks one to the fridge, one on his twin’s bedroom door and one on Sans’ bedroom door because who knew where the other skeleton would look for him first. He didn’t want Sans to run himself up into a panic if he overlooked one measly little note. This way, with a couple spread out in obvious places, Sans was bound to catch sight of at least one.

With a satisfied nod, Papyrus clicks the pen closed and puts everything away.

Then, he stands in the kitchen and focuses his magic.

It’s not something he had to do much at home—his teleportation came natural to him there—but he doesn’t know this place very well and that makes him nervous. The geography seems mostly the same but certain things appear to be in different places here. Back home, Alphys had lived where Undyne lives now. He mostly figures that if things follow the same pattern, when this world’s Undyne says she’s going to Alphys’s, that must mean she’s heading to the lab in Hotland where _his_ Undyne would’ve worked in his own universe. Since Alphys is the Royal Scientist in this world, it makes sense that way too.

(Unless the lab isn’t there at all.)

(Maybe it had been switched around with another building like Muffet’s had been?)

He hesitates.

But the weight of the phone in his pocket sits like a reminder of Undyne’s request. And, when it comes down to it, he’s never been able to say no to his best friend—universal divide or not.

So, he teleports.

And it only takes an instant for him to know that something’s gone wrong.

There’s a sickening lurch in his soul as his body zips through space. It cuts along his bones, rippling all over his form as the void spits him out onto solid ground. Papyrus presses a hand to his chest and falls to his knees, mind reeling. He feels dizzy and vaguely nauseous. But he only takes a second to catch himself, quickly taking inventory to make sure all his parts are in order and his bag still by his side. Next, he turns his gaze up to inspect the area around him.

He doesn’t recognise it.

It’s dark and damp but the definite heat around him confirms that there’s no doubt he’s somewhere in Hotland.

He’s also completely alone, not a single wandering monster in sight.

(Where in the hell had he ported to?)

(This doesn’t look like the area by the lab at all.)

Papyrus pushes off the floor with a sigh, brushing himself off as best as he can and getting back up on his feet, bag hoisted over his shoulder. He looks back but sees nothing but darkness behind him. In front is much the same. It seems like a cave of some sort but that tells him nothing worthwhile considering that the underground is filled with small caverns and slip-spaces all over.

He cautiously tries to teleport again but stops when he feels his magic fizzling at the edges. It’s probably best to let himself recover from that last disastrous ‘port and to see how things go from there. Besides, he doesn’t yet know what went wrong last time. If he was mistaken about the geography of this world being the same as his own, the next unplanned teleport could land him straight over the edge of a cliff descending into lava.

With a heavy sigh, he trudges on forwards, hoping at least that if he walks enough he’ll be able to reach some sort of exit.

It’s a quiet walk, his footsteps echoing behind him as he goes. There’s just enough light to see where he’s going and, though Papyrus isn’t the type to be easily scared, he still can’t shake off the unsettling feeling that something is watching him. The feeling creeps and crawls against his bones and his resists the urge to shudder reflexively at it every time it passes over him.

It doesn’t help either that he can hear something scuttling around but cannot for the life of him see what it could possibly be.

He’s turning the possibilities over in his head when his foot gets caught in something along the way. It sticks against him, holding tight enough that it slows his steps. Papyrus looks down, confusion plain on his face, and he finds that he can just make out the edges of something white gripping onto his shoes. Frustrated now, he pulls his newfound phone out of his pocket and uses it to shine a light towards his feet.

The additional illumination from the device allows him to see silvery strands tangled up against his shoes.

“A… web?” Bewildered, he wrenches at his foot once more and it comes free of its entanglement.

With the phone now in hand, it’s much easier to see the path ahead of him and as Papyrus shines it in front of him, he can clearly see more spider webs strewn about the floor. He side-steps them carefully, not keen on getting caught up against them as he proceeds down the path. All the while, the whole thing seems odd to him. Why make webs on the floor? Didn’t spiders usually make them up higher? Like this, they almost seem like—

(—traps for other monsters.)

No sooner than the thought occurring to him, Papyrus hears the scuttling renew in earnest. Suddenly much less interested in finding out the source of it, Papyrus speeds into a run, using the light to avoid the sticky traps littered throughout the cave. It’s working well for him, enough that he can hear the scuttling getting further and further as he runs. It’s even almost reassuring when the sound stops entirely.

Except.

Except why would it stop when Papyrus is no where _near_ the end of the cave?

He tries not to overthink it, tries to be thankful for the turn of events, but it’s impossible. He’s never been the most optimistic of monsters—that’s always been more his brother’s thing—and being dumped into this universe with it’s residents being the way they are just makes that part of him even more stubborn in its ways. So, even as he continues dashing forwards, he can’t hold back the sinking feeling that tells him that something is about to go horribly wrong.

His cynical side doesn’t disappoint him.

All the way across from him, spreading out wide and decently forward from what the light through his phone can show him, there’s webbing laced across the ground. In fact, upon closer inspection, Papyrus notes that it might not even be on the ground at all—it’s more of an intricately knit web-bridge of sorts than anything. Convenient for no one but the monsters that had made it in the first place.

If there was ever a proper way to ensnare someone, this would be it.

He stops dead in his tracks, unable to cross any further. He darts his eyelights around but there’s no way past this point.

He’s trapped.

“My, my,” comes a voice from somewhere above him, “Look who’s come to visit.”

All at once, the scuttling sounds increase till Papyrus sees spiders swarming in around him. Still, they leave a wide berth, a distance that is only crossed by one monster out of the group. Papyrus spots her instantly, fangs glinting in the dim light and dark clothes somehow glimmering as she moves. She looks different, angles sharper and body leaner, but Papyrus has never been more relieved to see a familiar face.

(No matter how dark her expression is as she looks him over.)

“Fuck, _Muffet_ ,” he breathes, hand coming up to clench at his chest as he near wheezes with grateful relief, “It’s only you.”

She raises a single, well-arched brow at him, “‘ _Only_ ’ me?”

She snaps the fingers on the top set of her many hands and pulse of spiders rush at Papyrus, making him yelp as they crawl up his body. They don’t harm him, only deign to coat him with webbing, thick and dense, around his center. It’s mere moments before his hands are bound to his sides and he finds himself incapable of moving. The tiny creatures then form a lengthy rope of spider-silk and hoist him up, bringing him eye-level to where Muffet stands on her platform of webs.

“I must admit, I’m a little surprised that the ‘Great and Terrible Papyrus’ knows who I am,” she titters, bringing a hand up to stroke his face, even while her others deftly test at his bonds to make sure there’s no room for him to escape, “Keeping an eye out for me were you, dearie?”

Her grip on his jaw contracts, tighter and tighter till her claws dig into the bone and scrape and grate along the surface. Papyrus shudders at the feel of it, going tense as he tries to remind himself that this isn’t the Muffet he’s called a friend for years. In fact, as he desperately tries to call on his counterpart’s knowledge, he finds no recollection of this universe’s version of her at all—his twin really _didn’t_ know who she was.

Muffet pulls his face closer even as he strains against the bonds keeping him in place and stares deep into his sockets with every one of her eyes pointed and glaring, “But I feel I should let you know that it’d be a mistake to underestimate me, sweet one. I am _not_ to be trifled with.”

The tenseness of the situation forces a nervous laugh from Papyrus out of habit, “Should I _truffle_ with you instead?”

Muffet stares at him, her eyes blinking slowly one by one, “…what?”

“Truffle,” Papyrus repeats on automatic, used to explaining his jokes to his own Muffet on a hundred separate occasions, except this time, his nerves make him trip on his words, “You know like the uh… the chocolate? You… you make them right?”

It is apparently the absolute wrong thing to say.

Muffet rakes her claws down his face, screeching loud against the bone and making his only just replenished HP take a startling dip. Papyrus clenches his teeth and keeps himself from making a sound but can’t stop from reflexively squeezing his sockets shut against the pain. He snaps up in his bonds but they old firm and Muffet brings her arms up to grip tight onto his body.

“Have you been _spying_ on me?” She snarls into his face and Papyrus, surprisingly enough, is suddenly struck with the image of his _own_ Muffet. On days where the regulars get a little too rowdy for her liking and she lets her usual calm, collected demeanor drop into something fearsome and threatening.

Papyrus feels damn near nostalgic.

And the nostalgia keeps him calm, “Muff. Muffy. Calm down for a sec, yeah? And could you maybe please stop gripping onto me so hard? It kinda hurts.”

This is clearly not the reaction Muffet expects from him, shock flashing through her open expression. It’s clearly startling enough that she does exactly that. Her grip on him loosens and the hand biting its nails into his face drops back down to her side. She’s frowning at him now, a pout on her face that almost makes him laugh because all he can relate it to are days when he pops on by to see her and doesn’t buy a thing at all.

“I’m not spying on you,” he assures, voice soft, “I just… well, I guess you could say I’m just an avid fan of your work.”

Muffet snorts, eyes going hard, and Papyrus resists the urge to catalogue the sound and try to figure out a situation where his Muffet, always oh-so-proper, would do the same, “Oh? And where would _you_ have had a chance to eat any of my confectionaries?”

(Shit, right.

Muffet’s didn’t _exist_ in this universe.)

(That’d be difficult to explain.)

“I, uh… didn’t say I ate them,” Papyrus starts and then desperately wracks his mind for what else he knows about his long-time friend, “I just mean—the presentation _alone_ is worth the price tag you put on them. It’s hard not to be a fan of something as skillfully done as that.”

Muffet’s expression softens into something almost amused.

“Is that so?” She smiles, and Papyrus can see the gentle shake of her shoulders, as if she’s holding back small quakes of laughter. He grins at the sight of it.

(Nice.

Fucking _nailed_ it.)

Muffet leans in closer to him, “So, tell me then. What brings such a high-ranking member of the Guard to my doorstep?”

“I was on my way to see the Royal Scientist, actually.” Papyrus tries his best to puff up his chest with an air of importance like he’s seen his twin do. With official business backing him, maybe Muffet would be more keen on letting him leave as fast as possible.

Surely, she wouldn’t interfere with the Guard?

Muffet tilts her head at him, two sets of arms crossing at her front while the right hand of the last set taps thoughtfully at her bottom lip, “The Royal Scientist? I was under the impression she never left her Labs.”

“She doesn’t,” Papyrus confirms even though he has no idea if that’s true or not, “That’s why I didn’t ask her to come see me instead.”

“But then why in the heavens are you headed towards the Core?”

Papyrus stares at her, “I… the Core?”

“Yes, dearie,” Muffet coos, once again stroking his face, apparently very entertained by his confusion, “You’re quite far from the Labs, I’m afraid.”

The way her words dip into a low and threatening edge at the end is something Papyrus is not sure he appreciates. He tries not to shudder as two of her hands come up to cup his face, her thumbs brushing back and forth softly over his cheekbones. He thinks he might be flushing a little at the attention.

(Though it had never gone anywhere because he’d valued their friendship much more, he’d always had a bit of a _thing_ for Muffet back home.)

(Apparently, that carried over to her edgier version here as well.)

More importantly though, if Muffet says he’s headed towards the Core, that means he overshot his teleportation. The idea of that is troubling. While it’s true that he doesn’t know this Underground as well as his own, he’s already established that the layout of the world seems to be the same even though the buildings and monsters may be swapped around.

He could understand teleporting to the area with the Labs and finding something else in its place but… to overshoot his destination _entirely_?

(How the hell had _that_ happened?)

The error was unprecedented.

“That’s… that’s a shame,” he says, pausing midway through his sentence as he feels Muffet’s fingers dance along the back of his cervical vertebrae, “I guess I’ll have to backtrack.”

Muffet starts to titter again and Papyrus notices now, for the first time, that the spiders around them have drawn closer while they were speaking, “What’s your hurry, sweetie? Why don’t you stay a while? It’s not everyday I get such important guests around here, after all.”

He tries not to let the sudden shot of panic in his soul show on his face, keeps his tone controlled and self-important, “I’d love to stick around and chat but, unfortunately, Royal duties come first. Wouldn’t want the Que—uh, _King_ getting upset with me for failing to do my part. Maybe next time.”

“Oh, dear,” Muffet truly laughs aloud at that, shiny, black eyes glittering with mirth, “It seems you think you have a choice in the matter! How humourous!”

Papyrus resists the instinctive impulse to fall back on a pun—even if it worked off of paper in the first place, he doesn’t think this Muffet would appreciate it.

“This is not a request,” He says instead, trying to drag his alternate’s voice into something suitably firm and menacing like he remembers from the memories, “Release me at once.”

“You should be grateful, you know,” she smiles at him, all honey-sweet, “At first, I was just going to feed you to my pet. But now that you’ve shown yourself to be such a little charmer, I think I might just keep you instead.”

His soul feels ice-cold, but he keeps his alternate’s expression affixed in what he hopes is a grim scowl, “‘Keep me?’ What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, sweetie. Honestly, you’re not very bright are you~?”

She snaps several of her fingers this time and gestures multiple hands towards him. Once again, Papyrus in awash in a swarm of spiders. They start to angle him downwards and away, possibly to where ever Muffet keeps her other pets.

Panic makes Papyrus drop into something a little more desperate, “Muffet, please—”

“Begging won’t get you anywhere, honey,” She tuts, immediately cutting him off, “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to hurt you anymore. You’re making a fuss over nothing.”

“I don’t want to be _kept_. I’m not a—that’s just—that’s not _right_ , Muff. You must know that.”

His words make her pause.

Muffet gives him a long look, considering. Then she waves her hand in a shooing motion and the spiders surrounding him back away. She comes directly up to him once more.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like living like this, Lieutenant?”

The sudden hollowness to her tone sends dread shivering up his spine, “I…”

“No. You don’t,” She whispers, but her words are still loud in the awful silence, “Not when you’ve got your cozy little job and only one other monster to take care of.”

Papyrus may not give much thought to his alternate where he could avoid it, but ‘cozy’ doesn’t seem like an appropriate descriptor for the job his twin has. To be a high-ranking Guard in a world like this is definitely no walk in the park. His alternate no doubt has to risk life and limb while out on duty—not at all like the cushy, desk job Muffet is trying to make it out to be.

Muffet clearly does not agree, however. Especially with the way her glimmering, black eyes shine with barely restrained contempt at the thought. The ugly jealousy is even obvious in the way she curls her claws, as if itching to strike out.

“As I’m sure you’re well aware,” she continues, eyes blinking slowly as they glaze over with the fog of recollection, “Family is everything in a world where you’re just as likely to get stabbed in the back by a friend as you are by an enemy. Family is the only thing you can ever count on.”

And there’s a jolt down Papyrus’s spine as he’s overcome with a rush of clipped thoughts.

 

_Sans bandaging his leg when he was a kid._

_Sans reading to him as he fell asleep in his newly scavenged bed._

_Sans pressing a kiss to the top of his skull, warm and happy and loving._

 

A wry little smile twists onto her small mouth.

“But even family can only take you so far.”

 

_Sans passed out on the bar countertop, not even stirring when he comes close._

_Sans blank-faced as he looks at him, sockets dark and unseeing._

_Sans cowering away from him, begging and pleading and tearing up._

_Sans, sans, sans, sans, **sans**._

 

She turns back to Papyrus then, looking him over easily but failing to notice the way the influx of memories has left him shaky. Her many hands starting to smooth over the folds of his clothes and rearranging them over and over. Bound as he is, he feels almost inanimate in her grip. Like a doll being set and played with for the amusement of a child.

It only makes the steady unease inside of him rise up higher and higher.

“Responsibility is a difficult thing, dearie. And then, _being_ responsible for someone can put a barrier up in your relationship that might as well be as unbreakable as the one that keeps us all trapped down here,” She laughs at that, brushing a hand down the back of his skull and pulling at his restraints absently as if lost in thought, “I am responsible for reuniting my clan and, while I would never abandon my duty, what I’m trying to convey here is that an existence like that can get quite lonely.”

She pauses at the end of her sentence, eyes going distant again. It takes her a moment before she refocuses on him and tightens her grip. There’s a sharp, ruthless smile on her face.

“For some situations, there is nothing more you need than a proper friend.”

“Friendship doesn’t work like this, Muff,” he manages to force out, just the thought of what his once close confidante is saying making his soul ramp up in absolute horror, “You really think keeping me tied up like this is building any sort of legitimate relationship? You can’t keep me trapped here and expect me to care about you.”

Never mind the fact that he does.

He absolutely, one hundred percent _does_ care.

It doesn’t matter that this isn’t _his_ Muffet. Just like it doesn’t matter to him that Sans isn’t _his_ Sans. He would _always_ care—he couldn’t just turn off how he felt like that.

It’s hardwired into him; carved into his soul with all the permanence of a scar.

There would always be that stupid, naïve part inside of him that pushed him to care for everyone, to _believe the best_ in everyone. It isn’t quite like his brother’s endless optimism—when push came to shove, Papyrus wouldn’t hesitate to cast aside his ideals for the ones he loved—but it’s there all the same.

It doesn’t matter what happens.

It doesn’t matter how many hopeless resets wear down on his soul.

He just doesn’t have it in him to stop caring.

(And that kills him every time.)

(Because it would be so much easier if he could just let it go.

If he could just accept that certain things are out of his hands.

But no matter how many times the story repeats, he can’t keep himself from trying to fix things all the same.)

Muffet laughs again and the sound of it scrapes against the inside of his skull, “Another difference between friends and family is that I can’t _trust_ you, my dear. Ergo, I cannot let you roam about freely. You’d kill me the second I set you free.”

“I wouldn’t.” He says, firm—or at least he hopes it is. It’s getting harder and harder to keep a grip on his fearless persona when all he wants to do is embrace his friend and tell her things don’t have to be this way.

There a silent plea in his words that Muffet either does not hear or outright ignores.

He’s not really sure which idea is worse.

“With that look in your eyes, I could almost believe you…” She sounds wistful, patting at his cheekbone in a manner that’s probably meant to be consoling, “Unfortunately for you though sweetie, I’m a lot smarter than that.”

“Muffet, you have to trust me that the _last_ thing I wanna do is hurt you.” He insists, pouring all his sincerity into the words. He keeps his expression open and unguarded, about as nonthreatening as he can manage on his own with the binds trussing him up the way they are. It’s awkward to manage but, somehow, it’s enough.

Muffet flickers through a mix of emotions too shadowed for him to properly make out, drawing close to him at the end and running a gentle hand along the side of his arm.

“But why?” She looks genuinely confused, as if she’s trying to understand and believe him but missing the mark entirely, “I was going to kill you at first. I have you trapped. You don’t even _know_ me. So, why _wouldn’t_ you hurt me?”

Before he can even attempt to answer, another voice calls out from the darkness.

“Because he won’t have to,” Papyrus whips his head around in the direction of the voice, soul leaping when he spots the telltale burn of red magic, “Not after _I’m_ done with you.”

Sans stands at the edge of the web-bridge looking absolutely _furious_. He has his hands slung casually in the pockets of his signature hoodie but his left eye is ablaze with magic, leaving no question as to his ire. If he strains his hearing, Papyrus can almost even make out a slight whirring noise that he recognises as the formation of a blaster.

“Let him go, Muffet.”

Muffet, to her credit, holds her ground despite the obvious surprise, “Sans. How… interesting to see you this far out from your post.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a walk,” Sans grins at her with practiced familiarity but, even from where Papyrus is being dangled above him, he can tell it’s not genuine, “Not too pleased I had to come all this way, to be honest.”

“I can only imagine how tired you must be, dearie. I didn’t think you _had_ a shift in Hotland today.”

“I don’t.” Sans responds and, as he pauses, Papyrus overhears the nearing sound of barking somewhere off in the darkness.

Sans looks back just slightly over his shoulder, before turning back to Muffet again, “But when you get tipped off about your brother being kidnapped, the distance from Snowdin to Hotland gets a whole lot shorter, you know?”

“Kidnapped?” Muffet fakes surprise, every eye going wide and a hand coming up to daintily cover her mouth as she gasps, “Why, what ever do you mean? The Lieutenant walked in here of his own accord! He and I were just having a… _friendly chat_ , nothing more. How awful of you to assume something so vile of me.”

Sans shrugs, teeth looking especially sharp when he follows it up with a tight smile, “What can I say? I’ve always been a bit of a suspicious sort of guy.”

Muffet goes silent and stiff.

And it’s weird.

It’s so, so _weird_.

Muffet is very obviously _afraid_ of Sans.

Or, if not outright afraid, then at the least she’s extremely wary of getting on his bad side.

But that’s difficult for Papyrus to make sense of in his mind, filled as it is with memories of Sans trembling and whimpering and generally being afraid. This is the same monster that bows to his brother’s whims at every chance. The same monster that flinches at every sudden movement from him; from every raised voice. The same monster that doesn’t get a good night’s sleep because of nightmares plaguing him at every turn.

To see him like _this_ , solid and imposing…

It’s almost impossible to puzzle into the picture he has of Sans.

“So, how about it then?” The skeleton in question continues, and Papyrus can see a single blaster materialise over his left shoulder as if in warning, “Why don’t you let my brother down so that we can leave this little ‘misunderstanding’ in the past.”

Muffet eyes the blaster carefully but only tilts her chin up at it, doesn’t seem willing to back down in the slightest. Her posture doesn’t drop and her arms stay curled around Papyrus in a way that could almost be seen as protective if Papyrus didn’t know any better. As it is, he wants nothing more than to be decently far from her with solid ground firmly planted underneath his feet.

He tries again to make eye contact with Sans from where he is but, besides a passing glance when Papyrus had first seen him, Sans hasn’t looked his way since speaking.

The tenseness in the air doesn’t dissipate. In fact, it’s looking like Muffet’s getting ready to turn Sans down with her politest ‘fuck you’ when the sound of barking gets louder than before. Papyrus cranes his skull back as far as he can and sees the dog couple from yesterday bound their way up behind Sans. They’re fully decked out in their usual Guardsman regalia, weapons pulled out and at the ready. They stand at either side of Sans, quickly assessing the situation and baring their teeth at Muffet with a growl.

Bit by bit, Papyrus can see Muffet’s many spider kin start to retreat back into the shadows.

Sans himself doesn’t turn away from Muffet even as the dogs situate themselves around him. His eyelights don’t waver, trained on her form with his blaster pointed ever at the ready. There’s a swell of something weirdly mixed in his soul at the sight of that. An odd surge of ‘fuck, that’s cool’ that he was used to feeling whenever it came to his own brother and a hint of something… a little warmer from that.

(Sans came here for him.)

(Well,

for his brother more likely.)

(But that didn’t stop his soul from rushing at the thought all the same.)

“Well?” Sans calls up to her and, this time, Papyrus can see the minute slump of her shoulders as she gives in.

“Now, now,” Muffet smiles, all saccharine, and brings her hands to the webbing nested tight around Papyrus, “There’s no need for all this, sweetie. I was just about to let him down.”

True to her word, she does exactly that. The webbing tears off like paper in her hands and Papyrus watches it happen with some measure of incredulity. It certainly hadn’t _seemed_ that easy to rip apart when he’d been struggling against it. Though, if he thinks about it, that’s possibly literally the whole point.

There’s just enough webbed roping left on him to lower him down to ground level and Muffet directs her spiders to do so with a simple flick of her wrist in his direction.

As soon as his feet hit the ground, he stumbles forward, legs wobbly from dangling for so long. He catches himself against Sans’ shoulder.

“Look at that, I’m _swooning_ ~” he chuckles as he straightens himself up again, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Sans doesn’t look towards him at all and Papyrus feels his soul jump uncomfortably at the scorn. Instead, when he finally flicks his gaze away from Muffet, Sans simply turns around and starts to walk back out the way he came. Papyrus is frozen in place for a second at the wordless departure, anxiousness building up inside him.

(He fucked up.)

( _Again_.)

Papyrus makes to follow after him, jittery at the prospect of another argument when they’d only just patched things up, when the voices of the dog couple stops him.

Dogamy is the first to speak, “What do you want us to do with the spiders, Boss?”

“Should we apprehend their leader?” Dogaressa asks after him.

Even without his answer, the dogs are already poised to take action, weapons drawn and stances ready.

It’s clear what they expect him to say.

Muffet herself glares imperiously down at them from her web but does not retreat. Even just the mention of capturing her has her kin swarming around her protectively. Papyrus can see the amount of care and devotion they put into surrounding her, desperate to protect her from harm. They love her.

They _need_ her.

She’s all they have to save them from the atrocities of this universe.

“No…” Papyrus says, and the dogs visibly pull themselves back from a pounce. Dogamy nearly drops his weapon. Dogaressa only stares, confusion plain on her face.

“No, it’s fine,” He repeats, more authoritative now, straightening his posture and widening his stance, “We really _were_ just talking.”

Muffet is watching him, eyes blinking slowly one-by-one and face carefully flat of any emotion.

Papyrus smiles at her, light and fleeting, and waves as he turns around to leave, “I’ll see you around, Muffy.”

He starts walking after Sans—slower this time, more steady and sure of himself—and the dogs follow after him, flanking him on either side. As they come close to it, he leans to pick up his bag where it had dropped and hoist it back up over his shoulder. After that, he reaches into his pocket to check on the phone and make sure it hasn’t been damaged.

The screen shows four missed calls from Undyne and a preview for a handful of texts that make him wince at the content.

(Great.

He seems to be pissing monsters off left and right.)

There’s little he can do about that right now though and so he pockets the phone quietly. As he does, the dogs speak up again.

“Did we do well?” Dogamy pipes up from beside him.

When Papyrus looks at him, he’s startled to see the monster’s tail wagging.

“We caught your scent while on patrol,” Dogaressa explains, just as excited as her partner, “We sent the young pup back to Snowdin to call your brother.”

(Oh. So _that’s_ how Sans had known where he was.)

“Somehow, Sans made it back here before he did.” Dogamy muses to her as an aside.

“He must be faster than he looks.” Dogaressa offers before turning back to Papyrus, “We weren’t going to do anything about it at first. We just figured you must be doing something important since you don’t usually ever come out this far. But, you smelled like him so we figured it might be best to let him know anyway.”

Papyrus nearly trips over his own feet at the statement.

He stops in his step, goes still as he turns to face Dogaressa.

He blinks at her, “I… what? I _smelled_ like him? Like _Sans_?”

Dogaressa gives him a look, like she doesn’t understand what his confusion is, “Yes. Like Sans.”

“Not quite as good as a collar,” Dogamy reflects once again, and Papyrus can feel his face start to heat up, “But it was still a clear enough indicator of ownership.”

His partner nods, “It was enough to let us know to get him right away if anything seemed off with you.”

“That’s—I—” He’s at a loss, cheekbones no doubt _burning_ with the flush of his magic.

(Had Sans seriously _marked_ him like that??)

(No.

No, he couldn’t have done it consciously.)

(It had to be a coincidence of some sort.)

“It was a little confusing at first…” Dogamy starts.

“…what was?” Papyrus hazards asking.

“Sans’ scent on you,” Dogaressa continues, “It’s been quite a while since he’s done that.”

“We were under the impression that _you_ were the one in charge now.” Dogamy completes.

“Oh.” Papyrus whispers in lieu of anything else, because… what can he even say? What words can he force into a sentence when his soul is pulsing frantically against his ribcage and twisting up in an awful, tight ache.

“But, in any case, we kept our word.” Dogaressa says, tail wagging once more.

“We helped.” Dogamy confirms, and it’s only then that Papyrus notes that both of them are watching him expectantly, eyes wide and tongues near lolling out of their fanged mouths.

“Err,” he hesitantly puts his hands out, wondering if he’s wrong about the sort of reward the couple are expecting. To his relief though, they instantly put their heads underneath his palms. Papyrus pats them tentatively, unsure of the procedure here exactly and distantly trying to imagine his twin engaging them like this as well, “Good, um… good job.”

They nuzzle against his hands happily, tongues coming up to lick at his bones. Now that he knows it’s expected of him, Papyrus strokes at them more firmly, ruffling the tufts of fur around their ears till both dogs are yipping happily. They pull away from him with wide, pleased expressions and happily continue walking side by side with him as Papyrus starts back down the path.

There’s only a little further to go till they come to the end of the cave and walk through an open passage. Outside of it, they’re back in the dry Hotland air, heated and stifling. A quick look around shows that Sans is waiting for them, leaning against the rock wall of the cave.

The skeleton flicks his gaze over the dogs before darting his eyelights back to Papyrus and giving him a pointed look.

It’s easy enough to understand what he wants.

Papyrus straightens himself up and turns to them, tone professional and stern, “I appreciate the escort but it’s best that you two get back to your Hotland rotation for the day. Excellent work.”

Practically preening at the compliment, the dogs give him a quick salute before rushing off back to their posts. Once they’re both well out of sight, Papyrus lets himself slump. He knows he can’t put off the inevitable confrontation any longer though so he turns around to face Sans.

The skeleton still looks like he’s holding back anger, posture stiff and unwelcoming.

He won’t say anything even though the couple is gone, so Papyrus breaks the ice instead.

“I didn’t know Muffet knew who you were.”

“Doesn’t everybody?” Sans answers, nonchalant, kicking up the tightly packed dirt with his shoes as he stares resolutely at the ground.

Papyrus doesn’t respond to that. Doesn’t know enough to venture a guess as to whether that’s right or wrong. Instead, he continues with his train of thought, “I think she might be afraid of you.”

He’s almost expecting Sans to shrug this off, to wave it away like it’s nothing as he tends to do with everything else Papyrus brings up to him. So, it’s more than a little disconcerting when Sans’ eyelights go dim for a moment before they gutter out entirely. When he speaks, his words come in a low growl.

“ ** _Good_**. She _should_ be.”

And there’s that anger he expected—simmering at the seams, his magic crackling like electricity at his joints. Sans’ eye isn’t glowing but Papyrus bets that it would be if he let his careful composure go.

“You’re pissed.” Papyrus states, not really needing verification when it’s so plain on his face.

“I am.” Sans confirms anyway.

“At me?”

Sans glowers at him.

Papyrus sighs, “I figured as much to be honest.”

“We’re not having this conversation here.” Sans says as he stomps forward.

The skeleton comes close into Papyrus’s space and grips him tightly by the arm. There’s the instant of worrying disorientation before they’re zipping through space, but Papyrus is familiar enough with tagging along by now that his nausea levels stay at a minimum. In mere moments, his feet are firmly planted back in the living room of the brothers’ home.

Sans releases him immediately, backs away with a snarl and a flash of his golden tooth, “You shouldn’t have gone to Hotland without me.”

“Did you seriously expect me to sit around at home waiting for you to get back? I’m not fucking four years old, Sans.” His words make Sans tense and Papyrus very nearly groans at the sight.

He takes a second to remind himself that Sans is speaking from a place of concern for his brother’s wellbeing. In Sans’ eyes, Papyrus was practically taking this body out for a joyride. It only made sense that he’d be frustrated. So, he has to explain himself as best he can without aggravating the situation any further.

“Besides, what did you give me the phone for if not so I could go out without you?” He says.

(Never mind that Sans didn’t even know he’d gotten it unlocked.)

(Or the fact that the stupid thing didn’t even _have_ the irate skeleton’s number fed into it.)

“I didn’t think you’d fucking _leave Snowdin_ like you had a god damn _death wish!_ ” Sans runs a hand down his tired face, “If the dogs hadn’t been patrolling there, I wouldn’t have even known where you were at all!”

“I left you a note.” Papyrus says, defensive.

(He’d left several notes, in fact.)

“Yeah? And where exactly on your stupid, fucking _note_ did it mention that you were trying to get yourself _killed_?”

In spite of his best efforts, Papyrus feels a flare of his own anger rise up in response to Sans’ sharp tone, “It was an _accident_ , Sans! You think I’d do this shit on purpose?”

“ _I don’t **know**!_ ” Sans throws his hands up in irritation, and there’s a crackle of magic that surges through the air, ripping through the room. It’s very near vicious in it’s intensity, though the intent comes off as frustrated more than harmful. Papyrus falls silent as he stares at Sans looking agitated and on-edge.

“I don’t know a fucking thing about you _at all!_ ” Sans snaps, the red glow of his magic coiling around him, “You’re just turned up here one day, wearing my brother’s body, and acting completely different from everything I’ve gotten used to from him!”

His brother’s twin is visibly shaking now, like it’s taking everything he has in him to hold himself back from a proper attack. There’s no blasters yet, but Papyrus can practically hear the whine of them begging to form. All Sans would have to do is call them up and Papyrus would be immediately at his mercy.

Surprisingly enough though, he’s not afraid in the slightest.

(If anything, he’s more worried about Sans.)

(He’s familiar with break downs but he’s never been on the side dealing in recovery.)

“You make stupid jokes, you laugh all the god damn time, you look at me all _warm_ and fucking _softly_ ,” Sans chokes on the words, clenching his fists tight at his sides and Papyrus is left to wonder just how long he’s been holding all this in, “And you’re always so god damn _careful_ with how you touch me, like you’re afraid I’m gonna fucking _break!_ ”

Sans laughs, and it’s an awful, bitter sound, “How the hell am I _supposed_ to know what sort of bullshit you’re capable of?!”

Silence follows Sans verbal explosion.

Magic continues to hiss and pop in the room around them, fraying like the edges of Sans’ temper.

The two of the them stare at each other quietly.

Papyrus speaks first, voice low, “I’m not an idiot, Sans.”

Sans snorts contemptuously, “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m not done yet,” Papyrus says, ignoring the comment and continuing on, determined to put Sans’ fears to rest, “I _know_ how much your brother means to you. I wouldn’t have gotten him hurt on purpose.”

Sans stares at him.

“I’m serious,” he insists, “I know I haven’t been the… _biggest fan_ of his, but I would never do something to intentionally injure him.”

Sans gives him a blank look, and when he speaks, it’s flat of anything but incredulity, “You think it’s my _brother_ that I’m worried about?”

Papyrus startles, confused by the utter disbelief on Sans’ face, “I—weren’t you worried I’d get his body damaged or something?”

“His _body_?” Sans continues to stare at him, “Are you fucking serious?”

Papyrus doesn’t know what to say.

Sans grits his teeth, “I’m _always_ worried about Boss. I probably have been since the day he was fucking _born_. That’s nothing new here. I’m so used to feeling like my soul’s been ripped out of my chest whenever I don’t know where he is that if someone did it to me in real life, I wouldn’t even fuckin’ _flinch_.”

Papyrus can feel his face start to tingle with pricks of heated magic, chagrined.

“So, yeah, you’re right, I _am_ worried about Boss. But you know who _else_ I’m worried about, jackass?” Sans is practically spitting the words, eyelights flashing, “ _You_.”

“I—”

But Sans isn’t even close to finished with his tirade, “Because guess _what_ , you idiot. Boss isn’t _here_. And as long as his soul is somewhere else, body or not, there’s _nothing_ I can do to keep him safe. My hands are fucking _tied_ when it comes to whatever constitutes as a danger in your sugar-sweet universe. I can’t help him anymore than I can reach out and grab him back.”

Papyrus can feel himself slowly start to tense, his soul going a mile a minute as it thrums beneath his ribs.

“If you get his ‘ _body’_ dusted like you think I’m so damn worried about,” Sans snarls, stomping up close to him, “If it comes down to that, worst come to worst? Alphys is fucking _phenomenal_ with robotics—she’ll rig something up to be a host to his soul once I manage to bring him back. Ideal? _Fuck no_. But will my baby brother still be alive? Yeah. Yeah, he will be.”

Sans is _fuming_. His eye is definitely ignited now, pulsing bright red spits of magic that light up the living room with ease.

“You know who _won’t_ make it through a scenario where my brother’s body gets dusted?” Sans jabs a finger up at him and Papyrus has to resist the urge to flinch, “ _You_ , you suicidal fuck! _Your_ soul is the one in this body right now. So, _you’re_ the one that’s going to bear the brunt of the damage done to it.”

With that, Sans slumps his shoulders. Most of his anger seems to extinguish, leaving only the smoke cloud of his words to hover in the air around them.

Papyrus tries to find his words, “I… but… why would you…?”

‘Care’, he wants to finish.

(Why would Sans _care_ about what happened to him?)

But he finds that he can’t.

The dogs’ words come back to him, and suddenly he feels the weight of Sans’ hoodie on him more heavily than before.

“Is that why you gave me this?” He whispers, hands rubbing absently at the fabric of the black garment, “To… help me?”

Sans’ eyelights shift to where Papyrus is playing with the ends of the hoodie and instantly a look of embarrassment crosses his features. His face glows lightly red and he darts his gaze away, looking off to the side.

“Who told—? Never mind, stupid question,” He grumbles, quiet and soft, “It was the dogs, wasn’t it?”

Papyrus only nods.

“Sorry, I guess, that I didn’t tell you beforehand,” Sans shrugs, but he still doesn’t look up at Papyrus, face still rapidly reddening, “I just figured that if I told you, you’d either get creeped out or just straight up refuse to wear it or something.”

Papyrus isn’t sure how to respond. Especially given that just the confirmation that it’s something Sans did on _purpose_ is leaving him feeling warm all over.

(Sans cares about him.)

“Listen, I know you’re not my brother,” Sans says, voice gone surprisingly gentle, “I _know_ that. But… for all that you may not be _Boss_ , you’re still _Papyrus_.”

(Sans cares about _him_.

 _Specifically_.)

“And I’d rather die than let my brother get hurt.” Sans finishes, solid and firm, and Papyrus feels like something is squeezing on his soul, making it hard for him to even move.

“I’m not gonna keep you locked up or anything like some fairy-tale princess,” Sans gives him a wry smile and it’s like a peace offering, “But just… fuck, look, I… I _hate_ the whole shtick with making promises, okay? But, I _need_ you to promise me you’ll be more careful. The last thing I wanna see is you getting injured and dusted before we even get a proper shot at sending you home. So, take better care of yourself, you reckless asshole.”

And Sans’ expression is just so soft—so gentle and so, so _vulnerable_ ; so unlike _anything_ that Papyrus has ever come to expect from him—that Papyrus hardly even thinks about it.

He surges forward in an instant, arms wrapping around Sans and teeth clinking up against his. Sans opens up to him automatically, curves into him with all the ease of practice, and that, if anything, should jolt Papyrus back immediately. But instead, he squeezes his sockets shut tightly as he kisses Sans, deep and wet and warm. He drags Sans’ tongue against his, sucking gently, and relishes in the startled moan he pries out of him.

He holds onto Sans tighter, pressing their bodies closer together. His arms encase the smaller skeleton perfectly, like he was made to fit exactly in his hold. The thought of it sends a pleasant pulse of happiness spreading through his soul.

The whole thing makes him feel so damn _giddy_ that it takes him a second to truly catch up and realise what he’s done.

(Oh no.)

And all it takes is that second for Sans to go absolutely still against him, tense and unmoving.

(Oh fuck.)

As the realisation dawns on him, Papyrus hastily makes to back away.

Sans beats him to it.

The smaller skeleton’s hands come up between them and push at Papyrus’s chest. It’s not forceful—not angry or upset—but Papyrus feels the motion like a blow to his ribcage anyway. He winces as if in pain as Sans nudges him off.

Just watching Sans back away from him, all slow and cautious, has the horror and regret starting to seep into his bones.

(He’s as good as ruined _everything_.)

Sans wipes at his mouth, eyes looking off to the side and face flushed. Papyrus can feel his own face going hot as well.

(How can he regain Sans’ trust after something like this?)

Neither of them make eye-contact.

“I’ll,” Papyrus starts and then _re_ starts when his voice breaks on the word, “I’ll take better care of myself. I promise.”

When Sans doesn’t say anything in response, he speaks again, “I’m sorry I worried you.”

That seems to be enough to reboot Sans from whatever state of mind he’s in. He still doesn’t look up at Papyrus, but he nods his head and straightens his stance. After another brief moment of silence, Sans motions one hand up towards the second floor.

“… it’s been a tiring day,” he says, tone forced light, “We should probably both get some sleep.”

“Yeah…” Papyrus offers in response, shifting awkwardly in place.

Sans doesn’t linger after that, quickly turning away from him and making his way back up the stairs. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t look at Papyrus at all as he leaves and hurries to his bedroom. Papyrus, for his part, can’t take his eyes off of him.

He doesn’t move from his spot till Sans re-enters his room and shuts the door behind him. The clink of his lock sliding into place is booming in the silence; final and forbidding. Papyrus rips his gaze away, stares down at his feet even as he brushes a phalange at his teeth.

It still feels warm from where he’d pressed them against Sans.

Papyrus lets his skull drop into the boney palms of his hands, groaning loudly.

(He’s so, so, _so_ fucked.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **keenow** asked forever ago for some friendship with Muffet! B'D i err........ hope this suffices ahahahah ;3c
> 
> also, as i wrote this chapter during nano, i kept telling myself it was too early for a kiss. and then i went 'okay but if i don't do it here, is this really slow burn honeymustard or am i just being an asshole?' so i ended up going for it. B') ~~and i was thirsty af so there's that too lmfao~~
> 
> i've managed to stick to my december schedule p well so far, so the next chapter should be out in about a week! (so next weekend in case u need to poke me hhhhhHHHHH)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, last chapter: welcome to the longest chapter yet, the next one will probs be shorter ahaha  
> me, this chapter: i fuckiNG LIED,,,,....
> 
>  **WARNINGS** for this chapter--body horror, unreality, depictions of death, creepy stuff in general tbh

He’s late for work again.

The only reason he knows as much is because he can hear Sans bounding up the stairs as he blearily opens his eyes. The excited bounce of his brother’s steps stop right outside his door and there’s a second of pause before the familiar pattern of knocks rap against the wood.

“Who’s there?” Papyrus calls out in response to it, voice muzzy from sleep but humour ever at the ready.

“ _Papyrus!_ ” He can practically hear the exasperation in his brother’s tone.

“’Papyrus’ who?” He grins with a yawn as he stretches out of his covers and prepares to get up.

Sans opens the door and strides in, walks firmly forward till he’s standing at the foot of his bed. He has his hands on his hips and frown firmly affixed on his face. It’s a look that Papyrus has seen countless times before.

“You’re _late_ , Papy.”

“That’s an awful punchline, bro.” Papyrus quips as he stands, one hand scratching at the back of his spine.

He knows Sans isn’t actually upset with him. Especially not if he’s breaking out the cutesy nicknames instead of ushering him along with tense words and even tenser actions like he does when he’s _actually_ under stress. This is just part of their normal day-to-day banter.

Simple and easy.

Papyrus winks at his brother’s peeved expression, “Your routine needs a little work.”

Sans scowls and opens his mouth but Papyrus must still be half-asleep because he can’t really make-out his brother’s words. Sans is talking and talking and moving his mouth but he can’t hear a thing. All he can really hear at all is a sound like buzzing at the back of his head. When he shakes his head, the momentary deafness falls away and he shrugs it off, going to pull a fresh hoodie over himself instead.

He’s just popping his head out the top of it when Sans hands him a slice of toast slathered in honey and a cup of milk— _essential_ for healthy bones and teeth, his brother is constantly reminding him—which Papyrus takes with ease as he takes his seat at the dining table.

(Wait, the dining table?

When had he—?)

“Alphys said she’d show me some new maneuvers today,” Sans says, practically giddy with excitement as he scarfs down his cereal, “It’s just a matter of time before I master this as well and then she’ll _have_ to let me join the Guard.”

“That’s awesome, Sans.” Papyrus smiles at him through a mouthful of toast.

His brother makes a face, “Ughhh, Papyrus! Don’t talk with your mouth full!”

“Says the guy wolfing down his breakfast like it’s the end of the world. Seriously, there’s about as much cereal in your mouth as there is on the table.”

Sans gets that light dusting of cyan over his cheekbones that he always gets whenever he’s embarrassed, “Well, at least _I_ have an excuse! I’m excited! Whereas _you_ eat like that all the time!”

“Guilty as charged.” Papyrus chuckles and his brother simply rolls his eyelights at him exaggeratedly.

“Just hurry up and finish eating, Papyrus.” Sans grumbles at him.

“‘Course bro.” He grins, shoving the rest of the toast into his mouth and following Sans through the snow—

( _Snow_? Were they outside now—?)

—towards his sentry post. This one is closest to Sans’ puzzles, so Papyrus already knows that it’s going to be a good day. His brother is nearby enough that he won’t have to worry about him getting hurt and he’ll also be able to drop on by anytime he feels anxious without Sans getting suspicious about his sudden appearance.

On top of that, Sans is always really good about bringing him snacks and other little treats during his breaks when he’s nearby. Papyrus had told him before that he didn’t have to go through the effort, but his brother had insisted that there was nothing like a little incentive to keep him motivated. He hadn’t pressed it any further—especially since it always _did_ make his day better compared to if he were on duty somewhere like Hotland instead, selling corndogs in the heat.

“Papy, look at this!”

Sans beckons him forward and Papyrus slouches on over towards him, looking in the direction that his brother is pointing. Sans has a huge, elaborate prank set up. It’s a massive Rube Goldberg-esque sort of thing, with big gears, shiny machinery and lots of sharp looking odds and ends that he’s not quite sure where his brother acquired in the first place.

“Uh… you sure about this bro?” He asks at a length.

“Yes, of course!!” Sans pipes up immediately before registering his hesitant tone and pausing. A worried look crosses his face and his browbone scrunches up, “Wait, why? What’s wrong with it?”

“No, no,” Papyrus placates, “If you think it’s fine—”

“ _Papyrus_ ,” Sans sighs, disapproving, “You _know_ I hate it when you baby me like that. I can handle a little criticism! You don’t have to act like everything I do is flawless.”

“Kinda hard when everything you do usually _is_ flawless, bro.”

Sans’ eyes get that familiar mischievous sparkle in them as he turns back to his work, voice light and teasing, “Heh, well, hard to argue when presented with facts like that, I guess.”

Papyrus smiles at the easy atmosphere and takes a long pull on his cigarette, “My only criticism here is that this _might_ be a little, uh… _difficult_ for any humans passing by.”

Sans seems genuinely worried at the thought, “You really think so?”

“Yeah, bro. ‘Cause like… you wanna _capture_ these humans, yeah?”

“Of course!!”

Papyrus motions to the many dangerous looking spikes and pointed edges to the contraption, “Well, I’m pretty sure a lot of this stuff is gonna grievously injure them instead.”

“Oh…” Sans looks positively distraught, and…

… it’s _odd_ because it’s almost like the landscape behind him gets a little dimmer in response to it.

Papyrus stares at it for a moment before darting his gaze back to his brother and rushing to reassure him, “Hey, look, it’s alright. We’ll just rework the design a little.”

His brother doesn’t answer, staring morosely down at his feet.

The background grows darker and darker till it’s almost greyscale against the bright blue beacon that is Sans in front of him.

Papyrus doesn’t pay it any mind.

“C’mon, Sans. It’s not that big a deal, yeah?” He continues, “If the two of us team up, then we can—”

The words get caught behind his teeth, “W-we can—”

A cold, relentless, chill digs into him, “We c-can f… ix…”

Papyrus trails off.

His fingers start to shake.

His cigarette drops out of his grasp.

His greyscale world adds a brand-new colour to its palette; bright and vivid and so, so, _red_.

“S-sans…” His voice wavers and he can feel the tears start to threaten at the edges of his sockets, “Sans, no. No, no, no, please, no.”

But there Sans is, clear as day, impaled upon the very creation he’d crafted.

His brother is silent and unmoving, red dripping endlessly down from his wounds in a manner that sears itself instantly to Papyrus’s mind, but not yet dust.

He’s still lingering—unconscious and fading fast.

“Sans… _Sans…!_ ” Papyrus knows with startling clarity that he needs to get help—he needs to _go get someone_ —but his feet are frozen in place. He can’t take his eyes off of the scene, because his brother is _bleeding_ and, oh god, there’s _so much_ of it. He can’t piece together how this even happened because, wasn’t he standing here the whole time? He would’ve _seen_. He would’ve known something was about to go wrong. He would’ve—

He’s late for work again.

(What—?)

The only reason he knows as much is because he can hear Sans bounding up the stairs as he blearily opens his eyes. The excited bounce of his brother’s steps stop right outside his door and there’s a second of pause before the familiar pattern of knocks rap against the wood.

“Who’s there?” Papyrus calls out in response to it, voice muzzy from sleep but humour ever at the ready.

“ _Papyrus!_ ” He can practically hear the exasperation in his brother’s tone.

“’Papyrus’ who?” He grins with a yawn as he leans against his sentry station—

(What’s _happening_?)

—and raises his head up from where it’s resting at the counter.

Sans strides in closer till he’s standing right in front of Papyrus’s post, boots caked in a mixture of snow and dirt. He has his hands on his hips and frown firmly affixed on his face. It’s a look that Papyrus has seen countless times before.

“You need to stop smoking, Papy.”

Papyrus leans more heavily against the creaking wood of his station, winks at his brother as he blows out a puff of smoke, “Aww, come on, Sansy. It’s not hurting anyone.”

“That’s not strictly true,” His brother says, waving off the cloud that wafts towards him with the ease of practice, “I was reading a book just the other day about the dangers of second-hand smoke. It’s absolutely _horrific_ the sorts of things that can happen to monsters with more fleshy parts and a physical set of lungs just because _some_ monsters refuse to curtail their bad habits.”

“ _Saaans_ ,” Papyrus might be a grown-ass man, but it doesn’t stop him from whining when the situation calls for it, “Can’t you let this go? I’ve got like, _one_ vice, bro.”

“ _One?_ If smoking is your ‘one vice’, what are all the late nights at Muffet’s then, hmm?”

He gives his brother a shit-eating grin, “What can I say? I have a sweet tooth.”

Sans looks decidedly unimpressed, “A sweet tooth, huh? And all the alcohol Muffet sells under the counter has nothing to do with it, I suppose?”

“Bro, of course not,” Papyrus gasps, mock offended, “What do you take me for?”

Sans rolls his eyelights at him, “You’re a jerk, Papyrus.”

“Hey now, watch the language, young man. That’s a dollar for the swear jar.”

“ _Please_ , as if that thing isn’t already overflowing because of you!!”

“Well, I couldn’t just leave it empty, now could I? That would’ve been sad and depressing.”

“Yeah, you’re a real selfless monster, Papy,” Sans responds flatly, sarcasm dripping from every word, “Bravo.”

“Aww, thanks, bro. I knew you’d see where I was coming from if I just explained it.”

The brothers stare at each other for a moment… then they promptly burst out into laughter over their ridiculous back-and-forth.

It comes easily; loud and warm and free.

It does Papyrus’s soul good to laugh like that. Especially since it hardly seems like he has the chance nowadays, as swamped as he is between work ~~and the resets~~ —

—as swamped as he is between work and everything else he has going on in his life.

“But seriously, Papyrus,” Sans levels him with a sterner expression, it’s effectiveness only marred by the slight smile still twinkling in his eyelights, “You really _should_ stop smoking.”

“I don’t do it around others, Sans,” Papyrus pacifies, “It’s only ever when I’m alone.”

“It’s bad for _you_ too,” Sans insists, “And on top of the health ramifications, it yellows your bones! You _must_ know that that’s seriously unattractive.”

“Wow, _rude_ ,” Papyrus clutches a hand over his soul, “I’m hurt, bro.”

“I _mean_ it, Papyrus,” And here Sans goes hesitant in a way he hardly ever does, wringing his hands nervously like he fears he might cross some sort of invisible line, “Not… not the unattractive thing—you’re right, that _was_ rude of me, even as a joke, and I apologise—but just… in _general_.”

When Papyrus just stares at his brother blankly, Sans sighs, “I’m saying that you should take better care of yourself, Pap.”

Papyrus shrugs at him, “I mean, you can polish a trash can all you want, bro. It’s not gonna suddenly change it into a sports car.”

He means it as a joking end to their conversation—self-deprecating humour has always sort of been his thing—but if anything, Sans only looks more distressed at his words.

“Papy, don’t… don’t _say_ things like that,” His brother says, and it sounds all choked and upset and Papyrus suddenly wishes he hadn’t said a thing at all, “I’m serious, Papyrus! Please. _Please_ , think about yourself more. You’re always so caught up in what other people think and how _they’re_ feeling that you never really take the time to decide on what’s best for _you_.”

Papyrus stays silent. He can’t rack up a response to something like that. All he can think to say is that what he wants doesn’t really matter, but he keeps his mouth shut. He could never say that to Sans when he knows all it would do is hurt him to hear.

“I’m… I’m really worried about you, Papyrus.” Sans confesses, tears gathering at his sockets. Papyrus’s soul clenches at the sight. He wants to race over and console his brother except the whole reason he’s this upset in the first place is because of him.

“You’re selfless, Pap,” Sans croaks, turning his face away from him, “All jokes aside, you’ve always _been_ selfless. Worrying over and over about me, or about the neighbours, or even just about monsters you pass by on the street, when all I want you to do is take a minute to consider yourself.”

Sans’ voice cracks oddly in the middle of his sentence, fleeting and out-of-place. It’s not like the crack of a cry but rather… something decidedly other. A creeping sensation digs into Papyrus at that moment, sweeping through his bones and making him shudder.

“They say all good things in moderation, don’t they? And maybe it applies here as well. Or at least it does when your generosity and compassion come at the expense of your own well-being.”

Papyrus feels like the world shakes in his vision, shifting and blurring over a hundred different scenes before settling backs into Snowdin, all while his brother remains unchanging in the foreground. His soul kicks up into a frantic beat in his chest, confusion making panic edge into him.

“Because sometimes, Papyrus…” And when Sans turns his head up to look at him again, this time his eyelights have gone endlessly black, a dark void that makes his very soul crawl, “Sometimes I think your selflessness is your greatest flaw.”

Sans’ is voice is all wrong.

It’s suddenly creaky and high-pitched, ringing sharp in his skull and making him stumble backwards before he catches his footing against the ice below him. He stares at his brother as he continues to speak, the echo to Sans’ words bouncing around inside the space in his skull like a dozen voices speaking all at once.

“Weaknesses like that…” Sans somehow screeches and whispers all at once, and it’s like a curtain drops down on the world around them. Everything goes black, black, _black_ , till it’s just him and his brother standing face-to-face with swathing darkness blanketing anything familiar. Sans smiles at him. Sans _smiles_ , and it stretches so _wide_ against his face the Papyrus can visibly see where it strains at his bones and causes his skull to fracture and crack at the seams, “Weaknesses like that can get you killed.”

And Sans opens his mouth and _laughs_

and Papyrus jolts so hard at the sound that it knocks him down to the floor and he’s racing backwards on his hands and

the sound is _awful_ , it’s piercing, _shrieking_ ,

and Papyrus is screaming, he’s _screaming_ and—

He’s late for work again.

The only reason he knows as much is because he can—

(He’s stuck.

_He’s **stuck**._

It’s just going to keep on looping over and over and over and—)

—hear Sans already at his post, bouncing around and practicing his dramatic exclamations of victory against any humans that happen to drop down. His soul feels warm at the familiar sound and it’s with some reluctance that he walks away from it, his brother’s voice fading into the distance as he approaches the door to the Ruins. No sooner than he leans against it does the well-worn pattern of knocks sound against the heavy wood of the door.

“Who’s there?” Papyrus calls out in response, voice muzzy since he only just woke up an hour ago, but humour ever at the ready.

“Dishes.” Comes the voice from the other side, rumbling and low but somehow tentative all the same.

“Dishes who?” He asks, shifting around in place and settling more comfortably in the snow, not minding the way it starts to melt into his clothes.

“Dishes a… bad joke?” His partner sounds almost like he’s testing out the words.

“You’re right,” Papyrus chuckles, “That really _is_ a bad joke.”

“ _I’m so sorry_ ,” Comes the rushed apology, and the kindly soul through the door scrambles to explain himself before Papyrus can even attempt to assure him that it’s no big deal, “I’ve never been particularly good with jokes, especially when it comes to puns. Even _this_ was something that my wi—uhm. My… my _ex_ told me once.”

“Hey, no, no, it’s fine!” Papyrus insists, feeling his soul pang at the thought of the old man wringing his hands in anxiousness, “Puns don’t come naturally to me either. My brother used to be really fond of them as a kid and I only even picked them up in the first place to keep him amused, you know? Nowadays he’s more into physical comedy—like pulling convoluted pranks on unsuspecting older brothers.”

His friend gives a genuine laugh at that and Papyrus continues with a grin, “It’s just that, somehow, _I_ still can’t seem to break the habit. To be honest, I appreciate that you’re hear listening to me at all. So, don’t worry about contributing comedy gold here, pal. I doubt _either_ of us are quite at that level yet.”

“Thank goodness. That’s a tremendous relief.”

“Don’t sweat it, dude,” Papyrus says, smiling as comfortingly as he can even though he knows his friend can’t see it, “I’m happy to be there for you whenever it seems like you need a little reminding to loosen up a little. Things don’t have to be complicated when it’s just you ‘n me—try and relax, you know?”

“‘Try and relax,’” His partner chortles, a wry sort of amusement in his tone, but far less anxious all the same, “Yes, it really _does_ seem like I need reminding of that, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly. You can’t just act like every failure is do or die, man.”

Another laugh comes through the door, though this time it’s tinged with something unmistakeably bitter, “I understand where you’re coming from of course, but… in my case, all of my failures _have_ been ‘do or die’.”

Papyrus stills against the door, falling silent at the sudden somber shift in mood.

“Several innocent lives were lost because I couldn’t protect them well enough,” His companion whispers, voice wrecked with palpable grief, “Lost because I wasn’t _strong_ enough.”

Papyrus lets the silence linger, uncertain of what to say in the face of guilt so strong that he can feel it seep between the cracks in the door. Instead he shuts his sockets and leans heavily against the stone, hoping his friend can read his sympathy in the quiet. When the pause drags for too long and he fears that the monster may interpret his wordlessness for disregard instead, he taps softly at the door.

“I’m sorry,” He says at last, “I can’t say I know how that feels.”

The old man doesn’t respond.

Instead, a startlingly dissonant voice tears through the stillness.

“Are you so sure about that?”

Papyrus’s eyes snap open and it very near rips his soul straight from beneath his chest when he realises that the door to the Ruins in no longer anywhere in sight. Instead, he’s now standing in the snow somewhere unfamiliar, the powder crunched firmly beneath his sneakers.

A figure stands off in the distance.

Soul pounding in his chest, he inches hesitantly forward only to see the familiar blue of his brother’s cape fluttering in the breeze. Sans’ back is to him, body still, and Papyrus feels the creeping of fear sink into him at the view.

“Funny,” Comes the voice again, and it’s like it surrounds him from all sides, smothering him under it’s near tangible weight, “You’d think you’d know _all about_ not being strong enough to protect someone.”

And like punctuation to the harrowing assessment, Sans turns around at last and Papyrus feels his soul sink like a rock.

His brother’s entire front is a mismatch of bloody, red slashes dampening the cloth of his homemade battle-body. He has one hand pressed to his chest, like in his half-dazed state he thinks it’ll be enough to stop the bleeding. There are tears streaming ceaselessly down his face, sockets empty and dark. He whimpers and more redness seeps in to his clothes and out of his mouth.

“Papyrus…” Sans calls out to him and Papyrus feels like the world is giving out under his feet because his brother— _his baby brother_ —is dying and all he can do it stand by and _watch_.

“Papy, it… it _hurts_. It hurts so much.”

“Sans—!” He takes a step forward only for the scene to shift around him again until, suddenly, he’s standing somewhere in Waterfall, straining to hear over the sounds of the rushing water. He only barely manages to pick up the note of panicked pleas growing more and more frantic in the distance and turns towards it immediately.

In the distance, he can just barely make out the shape of his brother. It takes another second for him to realise that Sans is flailing, struggling to stay afloat in the water. His soul jumps up in his chest and he races forward, only to be perpetually locked in place, legs moving tirelessly but taking him no closer to Sans.

His brother is _begging_ to be helped up—begging to be taken safely ashore, to be _saved_ —and even though the cries make Papyrus run all the faster, he can’t close that space between them.

Somehow though,

 _somehow_ ,

he can hear all the words as clear as a bell.

“What are you complaining about?” The voice intones, innocent in its curiosity, “You’re a skeleton, aren’t you? Who says you need to breathe?”

“ _Please_ ,” His brother gasps, and already his voice sounds wet like he’s gurgling through a soul filled to bursting with water that he’s unable to flush from his system, “Please, it—it doesn’t work like that! I-I—I’ll _drown_. I’ll _die_ like this. Y-you have to—”

A sharp cry rings out and Papyrus freezes as he sees his brother’s form crumble from a distance, dust scattering in an upturned breeze.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything.” Says the voice, bored and unamused. Like his brother’s death is barely a blip on its radar. Like it hasn’t single-handedly snuffed out the _only_ source of light in Papyrus’s life as easily as fucking speaking.

A hand touches his shoulder.

Papyrus whirls around and

once again

he’s back in the empty blackness of the

v o i d.

Sans is standing in front of him, face twisted up in a mixture of emotion that Papyrus can’t even begin to parse.

“Why don’t you ever help me?” His brother says, except his mouth doesn’t move at all.

Or rather, it does and it doesn’t—the words coming out of it never quite match up to the shifting of his teeth, even though the voice is undoubtedly coming from him. It screeches inside his skull and, the sound isn’t _his_ , it’s _not Sans_ , it’s the _creature_ that keeps hurting him, it’s the anomaly, he _knows_ it—

But Sans is looking at him,

and he’s hurt

and he’s in pain

and he’s dying and

all Papyrus can see is the betrayal in his gaze.

“Why do you let me die, Papyrus?” His brother continues to croak in that awful, _awful_ voice that’s nothing and everything like his own, “Why do you _always_ let me die?”

“S-sans…” He tries weakly but his brother cries out in pain and falls to his knees before he can so much as attempt to explain himself.

Papyrus rushes forward to grab him before he completely collapses to the floor. He pulls Sans flush against him and his brother goes limp in his arms, body almost weightless as it leans across his chest. Even as they fumble to a sitting position on the ground, Papyrus can see the blood start to pool around them.

It’s not right.

It’s _absurd_.

There’s no way that there’s that much blood all pouring from one tiny skeleton.

And yet, it spills further and further till it curves all around him in a circle. It seeps into his shorts and, through it, soaks into every article of clothing on his body like some morbid form of capillary action. His phalanges are wet with it and wet with tears and he’s rocking back and forth calling his brother’s name but Sans won’t _move_ , he won’t move and he’s so _light_ and he won’t speak anymore and, and—

He’s dusting.

“No. No, please, Sans, _no_ ,” He begs, manic and desperate, “Don’t _go_ , Sans. _Please_ , **_please_**. D-don’t leave me, little bro.”

But Papyrus can see it.

Can see with frightening clarity the way Sans’ bones start to disintegrate in his very arms till they’re only particles in the air. Every bit of Sans is breaking down—decaying, decomposing—till Papyrus is unavoidably _choking_ in the dust.

He can’t breathe. He can’t speak. He can’t make a _sound_ because, if he does, he’ll inhale his brother’s remains and even just the thought of it makes him _sick_ in the depths of his soul like nothing else.

But the dust coats his insides anyway, because he can’t stop crying—he can’t stop sobbing his brother’s name—and, when all that’s left in his arms is a pile of Sans’ clothes, he just clutches them all the tighter because he _knows_ it’s going to happen again, and then, just like every time before this one, he’ll be forced to watch as his brother is killed.

He’ll be _powerless_ like he always is.

He’ll be useless,

 ** _useless_** ,

why can’t he _ever_ do _anything_ right—

“ _HEY!_ ”

He chokes on his grief at the sound of his brother’s voice, soul snapping up like whiplash in his chest. He looks up searchingly but sees nothing but darkness greeting him from every side. He can faintly hear the voice call out to him again, but it’s too distant to make out the words. And yet—that can’t be right.

How can he hear Sans at _all_ when his dust is still clinging sickeningly like glitter to the front of his hoodie?

“Sans…?” He rasps, voice ragged and worn.

“Yeah,” His brother says again, and Papyrus can tell now that his voice is _still_ wrong but… but not in the unnatural way it was earlier. This is something altered for sure, but still soothingly familiar, “Yeah, it’s me. So, wake up already, you dick.”

And that isn’t right.

Sans wouldn’t say that.

Sans would never—

(He’s dreaming.)

It hits him all at once, flooding through his system as Sans’ voice washes over him.

(Shit, he’s _actually_ , **_legitimately_** having a dream.)

(And of-fucking- _course_ it’d be another one of those nightmares that had plagued his nights back home.

Seems like he can’t catch a break from them even while inhabiting a different body in an entirely separate universe.)

He regains consciousness slowly, eyelights flickering into existence in the dark until he can just make out the faint outlines of Sans sitting in front of him, his hands firmly grabbing onto each of Papyrus’s shoulders. A quick look around discerns that they’re on the floor at the side of the bed. He must have rolled out at some point, and he winces as he uncurls from the tight ball his body’s been pulled into.

Sans is peering down at him and Papyrus is close enough to see that his expression is one of concern, “You awake now?”

“I…” He starts and his voice comes wrecked, like he hasn’t spoken a word in ages, “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good.” Sans sighs and lets his hands drop down from his shoulders. He shifts around till he’s properly sitting down on the floor and no longer crouching over him, waiting as Papyrus gets his bearings. Once he does, they sit with each other in silence.

It drags long enough that Papyrus’s eyes adjust to the darkness and he can see Sans a good ways away from him, watching with a masked expression.

“Sorry.” Papyrus manages once he calms his pounding soul, “For waking you up, I mean.”

Sans disregards his words entirely, only tilts his head at him a little, “You do a lot of that back home?”

“What? Apologising?”

Papyrus knows what he’s referring to, but he can’t find it in himself to talk about it. He’d never even told his _own_ brother about his nightmares. Sans had known he had them of course—it’d been impossible to hide it, though he’d certainly tried—but his brother had respected his refusal to discuss the contents of them.

And even now, even though he knows that _this_ Sans likely deals with something similar, Papyrus still can’t stop himself from feeling uneasy about divulging the things he’s seen.

Sans doesn’t get upset with him for dodging the question though, only snorts and gives him a wry smile, “Come on. You know what I mean.”

When Papyrus continues to remain silent, he leans forward with a long-suffering sigh and clarifies, “The nightmares and the screaming is what I’m talking about.”

Papyrus scowls at him, “I don’t exactly think _you’re_ one to judge.”

The response comes easily.

“No, I’m definitely not.”

They go silent again and Sans only continues to watch him, curious and soft. The scrutiny makes Papyrus uncomfortable, but he’s glad that at least that Sans isn’t pressuring him to talk about it. He’s… also really glad Sans came in for him at _all_.

That Sans came to wake him up and save him from the horror his own mind had drawn up instead of leaving him to suffer through it.

He didn’t _have_ to do that.

Despite what Sans had said last night about Papyrus still being ‘Papyrus’, he could’ve just left this alone. Papyrus wouldn’t have blamed him. _Especially_ after the stupid move he'd pulled afterwards in the heat of the moment.

But. Sans had come in here.

To help him.

The thought of it makes his soul pulse warmly, affection spreading through every inch of it.

Papyrus rubs surreptitiously at his chest.

(Fuck, he really needed to get a handle on that.)

(Their relationship is plenty messed up as it is.

The last thing _either_ of them needs is Papyrus continuing to get weirder about his feelings.)

(A rejection like last night should be more than enough hint to tell him to back off.)

He’s not sure what sort of expression he’s making but, whatever it is that Sans sees on his face must prompt him to talk.

“The resets started a while back in our universe,” He says, voice light and breezy like he’s talking about Snowdin’s perpetually unchanging weather, “I’m calling them resets but I guess that’s not quite right. There were more like re _loads_ , honestly speaking. Like if our lives were a game and someone had saved on a certain day only to replay it over and over. And then, once they got to a new ‘save point’, they could only reload from that point on. Kinda like overwriting their previous save, if that makes sense.”

Papyrus doesn’t offer any input to the analogy, having come essentially to the same conclusion back in his own universe. Things there had worked much in the same way. He supposes that it’s definitely possible that a total reset _has_ happened at one point or another—he just doesn’t remember.

Re _loads_ , however, worked differently. You could catch things between those. It was always fleeting. Always indescribably familiar. Like that feeling of déjà vu when you did or said something that you could’ve sworn you said before.

“You said you kept a record of what happened in each reload,” Sans continues, dragging his gaze off to the side as he speaks, “I used to do that too.”

He pauses here, as if reminiscing. Papyrus stares at him; the slump or his shoulder and the way he wrings his hands as he speaks. Sans sighs a little before he speaks up again.

“I actually started it as a way to figure out what the source of the reloads was, because… well… since our reports showed an obvious source for the interference, I figured I could track it down. And… maybe if I did that, I could even eliminate it.” Sans stares down at his feet, eyelights dimly glowing in the dark of the room, “But it took me _ages_ just to figure out what it was. Though, I mean, I guess if you look at it from a linear frame of view, it took me no time at all. Sure as hell didn’t feel that way though.”

Papyrus can relate.

“It took me more than a couple of reloads to piece it all together and that’s where all my notes came in handy,” Sans looks up at him, “And once I knew what was fucking things up, I tried to track the flower down and—”

“Flower?” Papyrus interrupts, his voice sounding odd and out-of-place as it cuts Sans off, “What do you mean ‘flower’?”

Sans, to his credit, doesn’t scowl or get annoyed with being sidetracked. In fact, he hardly misses a beat, immediately launching into an explanation like it comes second-nature to him.

“There are these golden flowers that legend dictates existed in only a single village on the Surface. They were brought Underground ages ago but, as far as the general populace goes, no one has ever seen one. Supposedly, they can only be found in the Ruins and in the gardens of the Royal Palace,” Sans clarifies, “However, there’s _one_ of these flowers that sprouts up like a weed all _over_ the god damn place. It’s definitely got some sentience to it, if the way it retreats every time it sees me has anything to say about it. And… it took a lot of trial and error to get there, but there’s no doubt in my mind that _it’s_ what’s causing the reloads.”

Papyrus stares at him, finding it difficult to imagine a simple flower wrecking havoc like he’s come to expect from the reloads back home, “It’s… not at all like that for us in my universe.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Papyrus nods, “We’ve got golden flowers practically _everywhere_ back home. In fact, we’ve got a whole village full of sentient versions of ‘em.”

“Huh.” Sans says, blinking slowly and Papyrus imagines that he’s also trying to process the idea.

As strangely humorous as the disparity is, it only leads right back to something that makes Papyru’s expression darken instead, “What you’ve really got to watch out for there is this… _awful_ , soulless, beast. It’s small but no less ferocious—always acting deceptively sweet before clawing through your bones the second it gets the chance.”

“Hmm,” Sans hums at a length, “Yeah, I gotta hand it to ya. That _does_ sound a lot worse than a flower. Especially since I can’t really tell if the thing is doing any of this on purpose anyway. Sometimes it just sorta seems like it’s fumbling around trying to get a grip on powers it can’t control, you know?”

Papyrus grits his teeth, “No. The anomaly back home was _definitely_ doing it on purpose. There was never any doubt about that.”

Sans stares at him for a good long while at that. Papyrus resolutely looks away, not keen on showcasing whatever expression he’s making when it feels like his soul is being torn in two. After a brief pause, Sans speaks up in a hushed whisper.

“I’m sorry,” He says in that permanently ragged voice of his, somehow tempering it with something bordering on soft, “That sucks.”

And it’s an understatement—it doesn’t even _begin_ to cover how horrifying things get when the monster plays its games—but.

But Papyrus feels reassurance in the belief that Sans knows _exactly_ what that cold terror feels like. And, somehow, that makes the condolence more meaningful than anything else he could’ve offered in its place.

That belief is only solidified further when Sans speaks up again, voice quiet but unmistakeably clear in the quiet of the night.

“I used my notes to track it down, but it may as well have been pointless since killing it doesn’t actually do anything,” He says, and Papyrus doesn’t even flinch at the mention of dusting the anomaly because, if _Papyrus_ —in his normal, relatively safe universe—has attempted it, then of _course_ Sans has as well, “It always just reloads again.”

He nods in agreement, well aware of how that bit of action works by now.

And that just brings them right back to the crux of the issue.

“… I’ve watched Boss die over and over.”

He expected Sans to come back around to the point eventually but still his words make his soul seize up behind his ribs.

Instantly, he thinks back to his nightmare, still so vivid in his mind. The image of his brother as he bleeds out and dusts in his arms something he’s seen enough that it’s forever seared into the back of his skull. And yet, still it never gets any easier to handle.

“I’m always stuck like that. Just watching. Helpless to stop it from happening.”

Papyrus shivers.

(He's never smart enough to do anything about it.

Never strong enough to protect his brother.)

“There were more than a few reloads where I fought to save him but,” Sans laughs, bitter and humourless, “It always ends in me getting fucking dusted.”

Papyrus digs his phalanges into the carpet underneath his fingertips, soul pounding.

It’s always been the same for him as well, fighting ceaselessly to shield his brother from harm only to get shot down by something he couldn’t forsee. It’s impossible to do anything to help Sans, like his brother dying is a fixed point that he can never alter. And every time he lets Sans die he can feel his own hope shrink down even further.

“And I mean, it’d be _fine_ —dying isn’t a big deal to me if it means that Boss is okay, you know?” He shrugs and Papyrus is torn because he _knows_ that that sort of talk stems from Sans’ low-value of his own self-worth but, at the same time, he can understand completely where the skeleton is coming from, “But every single time, it always ends the same way.”

Sans goes even quieter.

“Boss just… gets _angry_. He’s always screaming and yelling and cussing as I dust. At the monsters that attacked us, at the situation at large, at me—and that would be fine, it would be totally fucking _okay_. Except he doesn’t direct it anywhere _useful_. He doesn’t use _any_ of that to protect himself or to get away. He just fucking loses it.”

Papyrus can almost picture it; can almost see the exact way that situation would play out. Because he knows what _he_ would do in a scenario like that and it’s not difficult to reshape the same sort of thing into what his alternate would do in his place.

(He doesn’t know how to feel about how easy it is to overlay the two.)

“It’s even worse when he doesn’t scream or yell at all,” Sans says, and Papyrus doesn’t have to look up to know that his eyelights must have gone dark; it’s all in his somber, deadened tone, “It’s the most awful when all he does is beg. When he’s shaking and wide-eyed and begging _over_ and _over_ for me not to leave him alone.”

Papyrus feels his chest go tight.

His breathing goes shallow and his soul drums ceaselessly hard against his chest.

He knows, of course, that when it comes down to it, he and his alternate are one and the same.

But hearing it like _this_ —over their reactions to their brothers’ deaths…

It makes his soul twist in the most uncomfortable of ways.

“And I thought he got it, you know? When he started treating me like shit, I just figured he finally understood how worthless I was. But somehow… no matter how many times I’ve seen it happen, he never once takes my dying lightly.” A warped little smile curls onto Sans’ face, dry and cynical, “He doesn’t get that he’s better off without me anyway.”

“Sans—” Papyrus starts before he can stop himself.

Sans cuts him off, “The point of me telling you this wasn’t some shitty excuse for a pity party. What I’m _trying_ to tell you is that knowing all these things— _remembering_ them—gives me nightmares too.”

They make eye contact and Papyrus can’t help but stare at the firm flare of Sans’ eyelights.

He already knows about the nightmares—he remembers clearly that the first night he’d arrived here Sans had been having one.

“So, you know what I did?” Sans asks and, without waiting for an answer, he continues, “I stopped writing it all down.”

Papyrus watches him with rapidly coming comprehension, their earlier conversation in the basement making a whole lot more sense.

“If your universe’s reloads work the same way as mine, then the memories must slowly fade at the start of every new ‘session’, yeah?” He waits for Papyrus to confirm before continuing, “You know what _doesn’t_ fade? Written recordings of what happened kept in a time-sealed room.”

He gives Papyrus a knowing look.

“And I don’t know about you but I’m _tired_ of keeping track of every single way anyone I was ever close to died. I’m tired of writing down, word for fucking word, how my brother’s bones shattered into pieces right in front of me while I was helpless to do anything but watch.” Sans eyeslights flicker and Papyrus feels his own soul pang in painful sympathy, “I already _have_ a lifetime’s worth of horrifying scenarios written down in cramped handwriting in my notebooks—I don’t need any more.”

Sans goes on with a hollowness to his words, tone veering off weary and onto apathetic, “If I can’t do anything to stop it, then it’s better that I just don’t fucking know.”

(So, that’s why he hadn’t been into the basement in so long—

he hadn’t been keeping track anymore.)

“So, stop writing every reload down,” Sans flicks his gaze back in his direction, and Papyrus almost jumps at the concern that flashes back into his eyelights, “It’s not perfect—you’re still gonna have to deal with every shitty scenario you’ve already burned into your mind—but at least there won’t be anything more to add to it.”

The very near _worried_ frown on Sans’ face makes Papyrus nod his assent on automatic, even though he’s not quite sure he’ll even be able to follow through. It seems to be enough for Sans though, and the smaller skeleton visibly untenses, his shoulder slumping back and a smile stretching onto his face.

“I mean, I think I’ve said this before but, you’ve got a weird sort of hero-complex, dude,” He gives Papyrus an amused look, “Selflessness like that can get you killed, you know?”

The familiarity of the words startles a laugh out of him, so different from the situation he just heard them in but a recognisable expression from further back in his past all the same. The mood in the room shifts to something a touch lighter.

“God… it’s so _weird_ how much like Sans you are sometimes.”

“Well, I mean, I _am_ Sans, so…” But the skeleton grins at him as he says it and Papyrus can see that he understands what he means, “To be honest, I’m kinda assuming that’s why you kissed me in the first place.”

Papyrus flushes, the sudden mention of the kiss catching him off-guard.

He sputters a bit—much to Sans’ apparent entertainment—before he finds his words, “N-no, I—! _No_. My brother and I weren’t like—we… we didn’t have a relationship like you two.”

“Yeah?” Sans frowns a little at that before shrugging, “Well, cheer up. If he’s anything like me, all you have to do is ask him and—”

“No, I,” Papyrus cuts him off, face no doubt unmistakeably bright by now, “No. It’s not—I don’t have any feelings for my brother. Well, I mean, I love him for sure. I fuckin’ _adore_ him. But it’s not—it’s not like what you’re thinking.”

If anything, that only makes Sans frown all the harder, “But then why would you kiss me?”

The directness of the question renders Papyrus mute, completely unable to find the words to explain himself. He can’t even begin to imagine what he could say here that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. But, as it turns out, the silence stretching on says more than enough.

“ _Oh_.” Sans breathes quietly, surprise laden in that one, heavy syllable.

They _both_ go silent then, and Papyrus wishes he could sink into the floor and not have to face the sudden awkwardness in the air. The one upside maybe is that Sans is clearly embarrassed as well, the glow of his magic brushing crimson onto his cheekbones. Still, that doesn’t make it any less immediately mortifying.

At the same time, however, Papyrus can't deny that he somehow feels lighter than he ever has before.

He’s never had the chance to talk to someone about the shit he’s been going through—he’s never really had an opportunity to air out his feelings on _any_ of it.

“It was the whole reason I made the machine in the first place, you know?” Papyrus shares into the quiet, and if the suddenness of his words throws Sans off, he doesn’t show it.

“I had some theories about the anomaly and I figured that it was something that was created so… maybe… maybe if I went far back enough, I could stop the _source_ of the reloads. Like, if I could stop it from ever having been brought into existence, I could fix things permanently.”

He looks down into his lap, and stares at his hands clasped together in it—the familiar-unfamiliar bones just slightly shaking. He brings them up to cover his face, squeezing his sockets shut.

“I didn’t want to watch my friends die anymore,” Papyrus whispers into his hands, “I didn’t want to see my brother get hurt just because he has more mercy making up his soul than any other monster around.”

Papyrus believed in the best in everyone.

His brother believed that if shown mercy, others would be merciful in turn.

But every reload had shown him that their logic was flawed.

It had altered him slightly, embittered him and made him shrink away from ideals he’d once heralded as truth. But that didn’t mean that Sans should be punished for being merciful.

His brother shouldn’t have to suffer for being good, and kind and loving.

He gives a self-deprecating laugh, “It was a stupid idea. I should have known it wasn’t going to work.”

(He really _should_ have known it—

what had possessed him to think he was smart or capable enough to pull something like this off?)

(But he’d been so damn _desperate_. Willing to try _anything_.)

(Anything at all to protect the monsters he loved.)

It takes him till he feels something wet seep through his borrowed pants to realise that he’s crying.

In the very next second, Sans moves towards him before freezing in place. Suddenly, there are arms hovering by his shoulders, tentatively lingering as if wanting to wrap him up in an embrace but too afraid to touch him.

He takes the unspoken offer.

Papyrus leans into Sans, letting his skull rest against the front of the smaller skeleton’s chest. Tears prickle anew at his sockets and he takes a shuddering half-breath to calm himself. Sans’ hands continue to waver above him for a moment, cautious and slow, before they hesitantly come to rest at his back. Sans doesn’t hold him too tightly, but the weight of his arms around him is reassuring none-the-less.

Papyrus allows himself the relief of being held and taken care of for a change, pushing back his inhibitions.

He stays like that for a few long moments; enough for his tears to dry up and for his soul to feel a little less tightly wound. He has the stray thought that maybe he should be embarrassed to be acting like this—that maybe he should even be _ashamed_ for being this weak in front of Sans. But the intense relief that comes from letting go like this temporarily overwhelms every other emotion. So much so that he almost doesn’t feel it when Sans presses a kiss to the top of his head.

He _does_ notice it though, and almost immediately he turns his head up at Sans who goes bright red at the questioning look Papyrus gives him.

“S-sorry.” He stutters, looking away, and Papyrus wonders for a second if maybe the peck hadn’t been a conscious decision—if maybe there was something naturally nurturing in Sans that was so disused that he couldn’t even think to hold himself back before he’d already gone and done it.

Whatever it was, bringing it to attention had embarrassed the smaller skeleton.

Sans immediately starts to pull away, patting at Papyrus’s back awkwardly once more before drawing quickly out of reach. Papyrus instantly feels bereft of his warmth and has to stop himself from reaching out to pull Sans back in.

(Has to stop himself from grabbing Sans by the front of his shirt and kissing him again.

Kissing him as something more than just a brotherly clack on the head.

As something more than just for comfort.)

(Sans wouldn’t want that.)

(He shouldn’t want it either.)

Sans gets up off the floor, brushes himself off as he stands. Papyrus follows suit, using the bed frame at his back to steady himself as he stands. He takes a seat again at the edge of the mattress. Like this, he and Sans are eye-to-eye. The meet each others’ gazes for a moment before Sans looks away again.

“You should get back to sleep,” He says, “You look pretty exhausted.”

Papyrus isn’t keen on going back to bed—not when, even now, the images from his nightmare are lingering in the back of his thoughts—but he nods at Sans anyways. He’s just turning around to settle into bed when Sans speaks again.

“Do you want me to…?” He trails off, face blushing lightly red again, “Umm… n-never mind.”

Curious, Papyrus turns back to him and tilts his head in askance, “What?”

Another silence follows, but Sans doesn’t brush him immediately off so Papyrus stays quiet and patient while he waits for Sans to speak again.

The small monster seems to steel himself, his eyes focused when he looks back up to meet his eyelights head-on, “On nights where my nightmares were worse than usual, Boss would let me sleep in bed with him. That always helped.”

Papyrus stares at him, unsure if Sans is offering what Papyrus thinks he’s offering.

“I guess having him close by was reassuring, you know?” Sans goes on, red still dimly lighting his cheekbones, “Let me know subconsciously or some shit that he was still alive and that nothing in my dreams could touch him.”

Papyrus can feel the heat rise back up to his face, soul beating faster and faster in his chest as he considers where this is going.

“I’m not your brother,” Sans says, “But, if you want I… I could stay here. With you.”

It takes everything in Papyrus not to reach up and clutch at his chest with the way his soul is pounding within it. He feels warm all over, genuinely touched by the gesture and not knowing at all how to react to it. He tries gather his wits only to find that his words fail him, jaw remaining firmly clenched as he tries to process the situation.

He must stay quiet too long because Sans looks increasingly uncomfortable, shifting in place awkwardly before finally moving towards the door to leave, every step hasty and rushed.

Papyrus finds his voice again.

“I…”

Sans stops with one hand on the doorknob, pauses with his back still turned to Papyrus.

“I’d like that.” He whispers, simple and quiet.

It takes a moment but, slowly, Sans drops his hand down from the knob and turns away from the door. Then, he walks up to the edge of the bed and waits as Papyrus shuffles under the covers. Papyrus slides over to the side and Sans follows after, filling the space he’s left on the mattress. They both lie on their backs, staring up at the ceiling side-by-side.

It’s a stark contrast to the first night they fell asleep together.

This time, there’s no warm press of Sans’ body against his—no soft breath ticking at the back of his cervical vertebrae.

But.

Sans knows it’s him.

Sans made the offer to stay with him of his own freewill, conscious and sober.

And somehow, that manages to make the moment far more intimate than before.

“Well,” Sans says, and his voice comes so soft that Papyrus almost misses it, “Good night.”

“Yeah… good night.”

A tense moment passes, stiff and restricting. Papyrus forces himself to relax, unwilling to let his anxiety make Sans uncomfortable. He leans into the smaller skeleton, letting a shoulder just barely brush up against his. Sans freezes up at the touch. But haltingly, after a lingering pause, Sans leans back against him as well.

Papyrus smiles at the motion, soul slowing into a calm, reassuring beat that has his sockets drooping with sleep already.

And Sans is right.

Having him there _is_ reassuring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter, a fuckton of issues that papyrus has been pretending he doesn't have finally come to light lmfao
> 
> another request from a while back was nightmares+bedsharing from **tealmoon** which i was more than happy to oblige them with, especially since it tied in perfectly with some plot i wanted to cover ;3c i hope this works for u moon,,!  <333
> 
> okay the NEXT chapter will DEFINITELY be shorter. (which is probs something no one but me is glad for cuz it means less editing sjhdakjsda) and should proooobably be out on the 23rd. ~~if not then, then it'll be the 26th b/c i'm devoting my weekend to playing the underfell fangame over and over while crying joyfully to myself jkhsdajshdajs~~


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone asked me to do a visual reference of what US!Pap looks like wearing his new clothes in UF!Pap's body--if u haven't seen it yet but are curious about that as well, u can **[check it out here](http://0netype.tumblr.com/post/154785109882/he-looks-like-swapfell-pap-i)** //thumbs upppp

This time, when Papyrus wakes up in the morning, it’s to the feel of something clacking up hard against the side of his femur. His sockets shoot open, instantly on alert. But even as his body tenses in preparation, the drum of vibration going off in the background seems out of place. It takes him a bleary half a second to place the source of both it and the buzzing against his bones as the phone still in his pocket.

He almost jolts up at the realisation, quick to make a scramble to pick it up. Except, when he properly draws his sockets open, he realises that Sans is still in bed with him. He freezes instantly, not wanting to startle the other skeleton awake.

As the vibrations from the phone eventually die down into stillness, he continues to stare with a stunned sort of surprise at the form laying blissfully unaware beside him. Sans looks to still be deep in sleep, not even close to waking up despite the way the phone’s _vrring_ had seemed so loud in the silence. Papyrus is still laying mostly flat on his back, just like he was when he fell asleep last night, but Sans has curled up on his side. His body arcs easily into Papyrus, arms around his waist and face pressed into the side of his ribcage. His face is fixed in a frown, likely in response to the noise, and he mumbles something under his breath before curving even closer against him.

Papyrus feels like his soul nearly leaps into his mouth at the sight alone.

On top of all that, Sans looks so _small_ while he sleeps. He shrinks into a compact little form at his side, barely meeting half of Papyrus’s size the way he has his legs drawn up so close to his chest. Still, Sans looks calm and relaxed; absolutely free of the heavy weight in every expression that he displays while still awake. It makes Papyrus feel warm just seeing him like that.

(Makes him want to reach down and stroke a hand gently against his face.)

His own thoughts make him flush and he squeezes his sockets shut, desperate in the hope that maybe not looking will stop him from feeling the way he does.

(He has to stop doing this.)

(Never mind the fact that Sans doesn’t feel that way about him because, even if he _did_ , it’s not like Papyrus can _stay_ here.)

(… he shouldn’t be distracting himself with things like this when there were more important issues to consider.)

Nevertheless, he lets himself linger, not hurrying to get up and out of bed. He lays back quietly and basks in the way his soul hums in pleasure with Sans’ arms wrapped loosely around him. When he finally does move to extricate himself, he does it slow and gentle, careful not to wake the small skeleton.

Despite his best efforts though, when he attempts to shifts Sans’ arms off of his waist, the sleepy skeleton still stirs, “Mmm…? Wha’s hap’nen…?”

( _Fuck_. Even his sleepy mumbling is cute.)

Flushing, Papyrus shushes him, “I’m just getting up. You can keep sleeping if you want, yeah?”

Sans doesn’t attempt to say anything in response. He simply nods and sleepily detaches himself from Papyrus’s side. He nuzzles against his pillow in an attempt to get comfortable before turning around and burrowing back under the blankets. Papyrus feels his soul pulse again with something softly warm at the sight and he rubs self-consciously at his chest as he forces his gaze away.

He gets out of bed.

It takes Papyrus very little time to straighten out his clothes from yesterday and pull them back on considering he fell asleep in everything but the hoodie in the first place. He runs his phalanges over the well-worn black fabric of the garment, considering. With only a brief moment of hesitance, he shrugs it on as well, letting it settle over his shoulders. He tries not to focus too deeply on how good the slight weight of it feels against his bones.

Papyrus darts his gaze quickly around for his shoes before remembering that he took them off downstairs before bed last night. With that in mind, he softly pads out of the room, clicking the door shut on his way out.

Once downstairs, a quick glance up at the clock in the living room confirms that he’s up earlier than he ever would’ve been back home. And yet, despite the early hour, he feels well-rested. He thinks back to Sans’ offer to sleep with him and wonders if maybe that didn’t help more than he’d initially thought it would. Though, then again, he has to remind himself that this _is_ still his alternate’s body. Maybe it was just wired to wake earlier, regardless of the amount of sleep he’d gotten the night before.

In any case, he figures that he might as well make breakfast for himself and Sans since he’s up so early. It would be a nice way to pay the other skeleton back as well. He’d be able to thank him and show appreciation for everything that Sans had done for him up until now.

(Well.

It would be if he could actually make anything half-way decent that was.)

Between him and his brother, Sans was a far better monster to have in the kitchen than Papyrus had ever been.

It wasn’t that he was necessarily _bad_ at cooking—he’d had to make a ton of things for the two of them while growing up after all. It was maybe more that he had less of a… _refined palate_ as compared to his brother. And, okay, _maybe_ he’d been in danger of burning down the kitchen on more than one occasion. They were small and perfectly within the realm of his control but, it had happened often enough that his brother—his brother who was _always_ trying to get Papyrus more motivated and involved in doing new things—had banned him from cooking for _months_.

It had been hilarious then.

 _Now_ , with the prospect of actually trying to make something that conveyed his gratitude properly, Papyrus sort of wishes that he had more practice.

(But hell, it couldn’t be _that_ hard, could it?)

With a vicious shake of his head, Papyrus does his best to cast away his self-doubt.

(He survived a hell of a long time before his little brother became the primarily cook in their household— _he can do this_.)

Head held high, he stalks into the kitchen with renewed vigor.

Which is how he comes face-to-face with the second biggest issue at hand.

The brothers of this universe clearly don’t keep their kitchen well-stocked—most of the cabinets are bare and there’s only a handful of pots and pans. Even when Papyrus had been cooking things for himself and his brother, a good majority of it had been pre-mixed things that he only needed to add water or a few extra ingredients to before baking or heating up in the microwave. Here, there’s not a single thing that he can easily make; no cake mixes, no instants noodles, nothing of the sort.

Anything he _has_ found has been the most basic of items. There’s an assortment of things like flour and eggs and sugar. There’s even some milk that probably hasn’t gone bad quite yet, though it’s shoved way into the back of the fridge. Seeing what he has on hand though, Papyrus feels his earlier confidence wilt.

Any thing he makes, he’s going to have to make from scratch.

(Welp.

There’s no point in stressing about it when there’s not really any other choice.)

(He’ll just have to suck it up.)

Papyrus takes out every ingredient the brothers have and arranges them out in front of him on the counter. He stares at the assortment before sighing, stressed and heavy. Pushing away the sluggish part of him that would rather go back to sleep than do any of this, he gets to work.

That’s how Sans finds him, about two hours later, coated in flour and with the kitchen smelling faintly of all the practice attempts he’d thrown away.

“Uhh…” Sans steps into the kitchen warily, announcing his presence with a tap against the doorframe, “Don’t take this the wrong way but… what the _fuck_?”

“I made breakfast!” Papyrus says false-cheerily, hoping his stalwart enthusiasm will distract Sans from the fact that he’s currently trying to scrape off the burnt remains of a particularly _well-done_ pancake from the bottom of the pan.

“Oh, is that all?” Sans copies Papyrus’s bright tone, “My mistake. I thought somebody had fuckin’ _died_ in here.”

And Papyrus feels like he must be channeling his brother from across universes because his hands automatically go to his hips and he damn near wags his finger at Sans as he responds, “ _Listen_ , it’s kind of a dick move to make fun of someone’s cooking after they put in the effort to make something for you, jackass. Besides, you haven’t even _tasted_ it yet! How do you know the smell isn’t just a by-product to mask how good it actually tastes?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” Sans says flatly before his face twists up in confusion, “Wait, wait. Back up. Did you say that you made breakfast for… for _me_?”

Papyrus feels his face go a little hot at the incredulity in Sans’ voice, “Uh, yeah…”

“Oh.”

(Fuckin’ _hell_.

What _is it_ about that simple syllable coming from Sans’ mouth that makes him feel like he’s gonna straight up _combust_ from embarrassment?)

“I mean, you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want,” he rushes out, wishing he could turn around and hide his glowing face without making it obvious that he’s flustered, “I’m not gonna force you to or anything—”

“No, no!” Sans holds his hands up in a manner that’s almost placating and Papyrus can’t help but wonder how they keep getting into these awkward situations, “I’m—I’ll eat it. Of course I will.”

Papyrus just nods, using the lull in conversation to turn back around and busy himself with his still blackened pan, away from Sans’ discerning gaze.

He waves with one hand towards the side, “I made a plate for you already.”

He doesn’t turn around as Sans approaches, forcing himself to stay untenses when he comes in close. When Sans picks up the plate, there’s a momentary pause as the skeleton stays standing there. Papyrus can practically feel his eyelights on his back.

“You’re not gonna eat?” He asks.

“M’not done yet.” Papyrus answers, gesturing to his pan as he continues to scrape at the charred bits still stuck to it.

Sans stares at it.

“Looks pretty ‘done’ to me.” He says bluntly.

In place of an actual verbal answer, Papyrus simply flips Sans the bird.

The smaller skeleton starts to snicker at the sight of it but still doesn’t make a move to leave the kitchen. Instead, Papyrus watches as he grabs a second plate and smoothly moves half the stack of pancakes from one dish to the other. That done, Sans balances both plates in his hands and holds one out towards him.

Papyrus eyes the offered plate seriously, “The last time we split a meal like this, I was immobile for around twelve hours.”

Sans snorts at that but has the decency to flush with chagrin under his gaze anyways, “Well, I wasn’t the one to make the food this time, was I? So, unless you’re about to tell me you poisoned my breakfast, I think we’re safe.”

Papyrus takes the plate from him with a huff, turning off the stove and picking up a fork to eat with instead, “How come it’s ‘poison’ when _I_ do it but ‘corrective magic’ when _you_ do?”

“Corrective magic?” Sans muses as they both walk out of the kitchen, side-by-side, “Did I call it that?”

“Well, you sure as fuck didn’t call it _poison_.”

Sans lets out a startled laugh, flicking his gaze up to Papyrus with a brow ridge raised and a wide, wide grin stretching across his face. Papyrus grins back at the sight of it. He’s still smiling as they both take a seat on the couch together. They settle in easily next to each other and Papyrus marvels at how normal it feels to be like this.

It should still be awkward.

It should still be weird.

And yet, somehow, they’ve found a tentative sort of balance with each other.

(And it’s _nice_.)

(It’s really, _really_ nice.)

Easing back into the couch, Papyrus takes a moment to eye the pancakes he made.

They actually don’t look too bad. It’s true that these are his better attempts and his earlier tries had left the kitchen somewhat of a mess and smelling kind of… _deathly_. But. Even though he’d had next to no experience making pancakes from back home to rely on, he thinks they look good. They’re golden brown on one side and slightly blackened on the other but, otherwise, they look almost just like the ones his brother would’ve made.

All in all, he doesn’t think he did too badly.

He looks over to the side to see Sans staring at his plate, no doubt still thinking of the scene they left behind in the kitchen. The skeleton carefully cuts a piece off of his first pancake. He stabs at it with his fork before slowly bringing it up to his face and peering at it with mistrust. Papyrus resists the urge to roll his eyes as he finally brings it to his mouth and takes a proper bite.

The look on Sans’ face as he tastes it would be hilarious if it wasn’t also incredibly worrying.

Sans wheezes and thumps on his chest, coughing erratically, “You, uh… you _sure_ this isn’t poisoned?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Papyrus grouses, “It can’t be _that_ bad.”

Confident that he can’t honestly have screwed up as bad as Sans is making it out to be, Papyrus takes a bite of his own portion of the pancakes.

The taste is…

… _indescribable_.

“Well?” Sans asks him.

Papyrus fixes a smile onto his face, “Not sure what you were making such a damn fuss about. This is… really something.”

Sans looks at him with amusement filling his features, “It sure is.”

“Well, if you don’t want it, _I’ll_ take it.” He says, mostly joking as he turns and leans towards Sans in an attempt to grab his plate. But, to his surprise, Sans pulls his dish out of reach and Papyrus is left half-spilled over into Sans’ lap as Sans holds the plate up high in the air.

Papyrus stares at him, “I, uh… I thought you didn’t like it?”

Sans immediately looks away from him, “I never said that.”

Papyrus can see the red start to stain Sans’ cheekbones and his soul pangs at the sight of it.

(He’s fucking _adorable_ , holy fuck.)

“Maybe I should have made you some oatmeal instead,” He grins from his place in Sans’ lap, “I have it on good authority that I’m not completely awful at that.”

Sans still won’t look at him, face continuing to glow with the bright burn of his magic, “Oatmeal is fuckin’ gross.”

“ _You’re_ gross.”

He’s treated to yet another surprised laugh from Sans as his juvenile come-back reaches him. The skeleton finally turns to face him then, eyelights glinting with something amused yet unmistakeably soft, “Shut-up, Papyrus.”

Papyrus freezes.

(Holy shit.)

His mouth parts in shock.

(Holy _shit_.)

His soul feels like it’s going to beat right out of his chest.

( ** _Holy_** _**shit**_ ,

Sans called him by _name_.)

He can’t help but stare, a frankly _ridiculous_ amount of joy flooding through his system and leaving him incapable of moving from his place.

(It sounds so _good_ when he says it.)

Sans’ smile falters, “… what?”

Papyrus shakes his head quickly, willing his face not to burn as he gets up out of Sans’ lap. He forces his concentration elsewhere, certain that if he thinks about the damn near _affectionate_ way Sans said his name, he’ll start flushing all over again. Luckily, Sans doesn’t push it either and Papyrus returns back to his meal, trying to salvage his pride by eating as much of it as he can.

He’s so focused on choking down what’s left on his plate that he just about jumps out of his seat when something vibrates against his side. As it is, he yelps in surprise, bits of pancake falling out of his mouth. Sans immediately looks up at him in concern.

“What happened?”

Papyrus shakes his head as he reaches down towards the pocket of his pants. He runs a hand over the outline of the cellphone still nestled in his pocket. He’d totally forgotten it was even in there.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. The phone just vibrated.”

“The phone—?” Sans eyes his pants, “Fuck, wait, was that in your pocket the whole night? I was _wondering_ what that was pressing up against me. For a second I thought—”

But Papyrus doesn’t get to hear what Sans thought it was because his phone starts vibrating again in earnest. This time, it somehow seems like each vibration gets progressively more and more angry. With a sinking soul, Papyrus pulls the phone out of his pocket.

He knows who it’s going to be before he even looks at the screen.

“Fuck,” he whispers as the incoming texts confirm his suspicions, “It’s Undyne.”

“Undyne?” Sans says as he stretches over from his place on the couch to get a better look at Papyrus’s screen, “What does _she_ want?”

“Uhh, you know how you found me at Muffet’s yesterday?”

“… yeah?”

“Well, the reason I was in Hotland in the first place was because Undyne called me out there. Pretty sure I mentioned it in my note too.”

“So?” Sans asks, confusion on his face, “What did you guys talk about?”

“I never actually saw her,” Papyrus clarifies, “I got sort of, uh… _hung up_ with Muffet. Then you came in and we went home.”

Sans snickers at his pun before giving him a teasing smirk, “So, you stood Undyne up? Wow, you’re kind of a douche, aren’t you?”

Papyrus rolls his eyelights at him, “It wasn’t a fucking _date_. Especially not when she invited me to her _girlfriend’s_ house.”

“Wait, wait, she called you over to Alph’s?” The ease of entertainment wipes away from Sans’ face and he immediately stiffens, “What did she want?”

Papyrus shrugs, “Dunno. She never really said.”

“Well, what’s she saying right _now_?”

Papyrus looks back down at his phone.

Undyne does not… sound very happy in any of her texts.

“Mostly she, uh… she seems kinda pissed that I didn’t come over yesterday. And then she gets upset at the fact that I didn’t let her know I wouldn’t be coming. And then she, uh… oh, whoa. She uses some pretty colourful language to express her ‘disappointment’ with me because I haven’t been answering her calls before proceeding to—”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Sans says, turning away and drumming his phalanges against his femur as he mulls something over.

Papyrus reads the texts over to himself a few more times, groaning inwardly at the progressive increase in irritation that comes through with each one. He’s about to turn and ask Sans just how worried he should be about blowing Undyne off when he stops at the sight of him.

Sans is deep in thought, some private idea in his head keeping him busy.

Papyrus is wondering whether he should risk interrupting when the skeleton turns to face him fully, “How do you feel about Royal Scientists?”

Papyrus blinks at him, “Well, uh, considering I was best friends with one back home… pretty good, I’d say.”

“Perfect.” Sans says, and grabs him by the hand.

“Wait, Sans, what are you—”

They’re teleporting before Papyrus can even finish his sentence.

At least he’s used to tagging along by now. He hardly feels the awful nausea anymore, tugged along as he is in a weird, weightless freefall at Sans’ side. He doesn’t even stumble when they land in Hotland, right in front of familiar steel doors to a huge lab.

“I didn’t even get to finish breakfast.” Papyrus grumbles.

Sans holds a plate out towards him.

Papyrus just stares at it, “… did you seriously bring our fucking pancakes with us?”

Sans stares back at him, face mock-stern, “I _never_ waste food.”

“I’m flattered,” Papyrus laughs, grinning at him as he takes the plate, “I honestly didn’t think you were that big a fan of my cooking.”

Sans doesn’t answer him, too busy scarfing down what remains of his pancakes. But Papyrus can see the soft red on his cheekbones and the sight of it is almost enough to wash away the inexplicably strange taste of his attempt at making a meal. While they eat, Sans knocks on the door and presses repeatedly at a sleek looking white intercom bell.

There’s a flash of something that Papyrus assumes is a camera but no voice to greet them. He worries over it for a moment but a quick look to the side shows that Sans is completely calm. Settling down, Papyrus follows in the other skeleton’s example and continues to eat.

Just as they finish, the doors slide open to reveal a yellow lizard monster sporting a stark, white lab coat and pair of sharp edged glasses.

“Hey, Alph.” Sans greets, smile wide around the last of his breakfast.

“Sans,” Alphys nods at him, voice much less gruff than Papyrus remembers from home, “And… you came with the Lieutenant.”

“Yup,” Sans says brightly, grabbing Papyrus’s empty plate from him and stacking it on top of his before promptly shoving it in Alphys’s direction, “Hold onto these for me, will ya?”

The Royal Scientist scowls at him but grabs onto the plates anyway, even as Sans shoves past her with his shoulder knocking up against her. Papyrus winces a little at the rough display, so used to the companionable relationship his own brother had with the Alphys back home. But being here for as long as he has now has taught him that he knows jack-shit about how relationships work here, so maybe this isn’t as rude as it looks.

(Then again, Alphys _does_ look kind of pissed.)

She stares after Sans as he waltz into the lab like he owns the place and then turns her head back up to Papyrus. Startled by the sudden attention, he gives her a half-smile then immediately regrets it the moment he sees her grimace in response to it.

(Oh.

Right.)

(His alternate probably didn’t do a lot of smiling around other monsters if he even ever deigned to smile at all.)

He quickly follows after Sans.

As they all enter, the mechanical doors automatically seal shut behind them.

Papyrus takes a moment to get a good look around the lab and is surprised to find that it’s mostly the same.

Unlike the blunt differences between Grillby’s and Muffet’s, the lab itself is largely unchanged. Maybe it’s because science-y stuff has always had stricter rules and guidelines to be aware of in regards to safe placement and maintenance, but the machinery and positioning of most objects is almost identical to what it was like back home. If anything at all is different, it’s that the things here seem to have a bit more of an angular sharpness to their construction, like they were made with intimidation in mind. Otherwise, it’s nothing new.

Even the mess is mostly the same.

Undyne hadn’t been the neatest scientist and it’s clear that Alphys is much the same. There are used bowls and food wrappers gathered all around her desk, and Papyrus can see empty instant noodle containers piling up in the trash bin. The sight of them makes him grin, remembering how often his friend had to be persuaded to eat something with a little more substance whenever she got into one of her inventing moods and couldn’t be bothered to do more than use the microwave.

A cursory glance up at the walls shows that this universe’s Alphys, much like his Undyne, also has a passion for anime—though it seems that their taste is a little different. Where Undyne had been particularly fond of mechs and military-centered shows crammed full of action and flashy animation budgets, _this_ Royal Scientist seems to be partial to magical girls and fantasy scenarios that are a mixture of gritty and absurdly cute. Or at least, that’s what her mountains of figurines and wall full of posters say about her taste anyways.

Papyrus can’t help but smile, the differences between them interesting to note when he really thinks about them. He wonders what this means for his own universe’s Alphys and her preferences.

“So,” the Royal Scientist says as they all shuffle into the main room, “Why are you here?”

“What, I can’t drop by and visit an old pal?” Sans grins at her.

Alphys rolls her eyes at him, even as a fresh sweat breaks out over her scales, covering them in a light sheen that’s unmistakeable in the bright, white lights of the lab.

Papyrus gets the distinct impression that she’s putting on a brave front.

“C-cut the shit, Sans,” She says, and her voice just barely trembles, “Why did you come here? And with… your brother.”

She barely gives either of them time to process the question before frantically barreling on with her next one, “I-if you think you can j-just come in here without a warrant and t-try to arrest me—”

“No, of course not,” Papyrus is quick to assure her, “Why would you think we’re gonna arrest…?”

Papyrus trails off as he remembers his Undyne—quiet and nervous and most _definitely_ hiding something away from the world at large.

It’s not too much of a stretch to believe that the same sort of situation might be occurring here.

He gives Alphys a look, practiced from his time trying to convince Undyne to be more honest with her issues, “Listen. Isn’t your girlfriend the Captain of the Guard? If you’re worried about being arrested for something, you should be more concerned about _her_ finding out than me.”

“I-is that a threat?!” Alphys very near screeches, baring her sharp teeth at him in an open-mouthed growl.

“What, no, I’m just—”

Sans’ voice, surprisingly soft in the loudness, cuts through the noise, “You’re not about to get arrested, Alph. Calm down.”

“Then w-why did you bring _him_?!” Alphys accuses, one clawed finger pointing viciously up at Papyrus.

“I was kinda hoping _you_ could tell _me_.” Sans says, tone still light and reassuring.

Alphys blinks up at him, confused and irritation momentarily forgotten, “W-what?”

Sans looks up at him and Papyrus takes that as his cue to explain, “Undyne called me here yesterday. I wanted to know why.”

Alphys’s expression goes tight, “I-is that it?”

“Well… yeah.”

At the confirmation, the change is instantly apparent. Almost immediately, the scientist’s posture relaxes. It’s like a weight lifts off of her and, although some measure of tenseness remains, she looks a lot more at ease. When she speaks again, she sounds a lot calmer. Almost bright, even.

“Oh, that was nothing,” She shrugs, waving it away off-handedly, “Undyne just wanted me to do a check-up on you. Make sure everything was working right.”

Papyrus doesn’t have to look to know Sans has gone tense beside him, it’s all in the tightness of his voice, “Oh, yeah? You a physician now, Alph? How come you never told me?”

Alphys glowers at him, “I may not be a f-fucking _physician_ , but it’s not his _body_ that Undyne wanted me to check.”

“Is that so?” Sans says, and his voice has gone so low and so dark that Papyrus thinks it’s a wonder Alphys doesn’t notice.

(Or maybe she does but pays it no mind.

For all he knows, antagonism might be the norm between them.)

“She was having some concerns about his soul,” Alphys says, easy and unassuming and Papyrus exchanges a worried glance with Sans, “Said that his Checks were coming up abnormal so she wanted me to run some tests.”

As she speaks, she moves over to an unlocked drawer and pulls out a few relatively harmless looking instruments, “Speaking of which though, as long as you’re here—”

“That will not be necessary,” Papyrus says quickly, making use of his alternate’s commanding tone once more, “I’m confident that I’ll be able to make a full recovery soon enough.”

Alphys frowns at him, “H-how can you be so sure of that when you don’t even know what’s w-wrong in the first place?”

“Well, you know my brother, Alph,” Sans chuckles, “When it comes to him, confidence is usually half the battle.”

Sans winks at him as a follow-up to the statement and Papyrus gets the sudden urge to play along, the easy way San behaves around Alphys assuring him that there’s nothing to be on guard for.

“My confidence isn’t just for show,” He boasts, straightening his spine as stiffly as he can, “ _Nothing_ stands in the way of the Great and Terrible Papyrus!”

He puffs out his chest and resists the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all, though the success is debatable because he can’t keep a sweeping grin off his face. It doesn’t help that Sans is giving him the most amused look from off to the side, sockets wide and expression smiling and open. Papyrus has to look away from him before he bursts out into laughter.

Alphys looks between the two of them with something like a frown on her face, “Y-you two are… a lot closer than I thought you were.”

“We’re brothers,” Papyrus says smoothly, “Of course we’re close.”

Alphys’s eyes dart over to Sans at the comment, but the shorter skeleton doesn’t offer anything of his own. When Alphys’s expression morphs into something questioning, Sans only shrugs at her, smile fixed firmly to his face. With a frustrated sigh, the scientist turns away from them and returns her supplies to her drawers.

“I-if that’s all you came for, you c-can probably go now.” She mutters derisively under her breath.

“Aww, c’mon, Alph! Kicking us out already?” Sans walks up to her and slings an arm around her shoulders causing the stout monster to yelp, “It’s been a while—let’s hang out for a bit, yeah?”

“I h-have work!” Alphys protests.

“Take a break.” Sans insists.

“I-I _can’t_ , you unbelievable prick! T-this isn’t some fucking h-hobby that I can just put on hold like that!”

“Yeah?” Sans pulls back and gestures around at the many decorative posters lining her walls, “Then I wonder where you got the time to, uh, ‘ _research_ ’ all this.”

Alphys looks ridiculously flustered at the accusation, scales slicking over with a fresh sheen of sweat. She starts to sputter and screech angrily, much to Sans’ amusement and Papyrus’s wonder. He’d never in his _life_ thought he’d ever see Alphys looks so out of it. He’d known through his brother that his Alphys had some issues with anxiety, but mostly the Captain had kept herself well-sorted—always on top of things and ready when she needed to be. Seeing _this_ Alphys stutter and stumble with her words as she lost control of the situation was strange.

“Come on, Alph. It’s not like I’m asking you to go skinny-dipping in Waterfall with me!” And even as Alphys blushes and protests anew at that, Papyrus has to stop his traitorous thoughts from imagining exactly what that scenario might look like, “Let’s just sit and chill for a bit, yeah? I’m fucking exhausted.”

“H-how can you be tired?!” Alphys yells as Sans pushes her in the direction of some bean bags chairs she has set up in front of a huge display of monitors, “It’s b-barely past eight in the morning!”

“Simple,” Sans supplies as he easily maneuvers her into a sitting position and flops down into a chair himself, “This is like, _four hours_ earlier than I usually get up. My body’s fucking _begging_ me to go back to sleep.”

“Actually, a nap _does_ sound pretty good.” Papyrus pipes up from where he’s standing.

“See?” Sans says, throwing a grin Papyrus’s way before turning back to Alphys, “Even my brother agrees.”

Alphys shoots another narrowed glance at Papyrus before eyeing Sans with barely concealed disgust, “You c-could take a nap at _home_ , you know.”

Sans laughs, “But where would be the fun in that?”

As Alphys continues to grumble at him, Sans turns to look at him over his shoulder, “Take a seat, Papyrus. I’m sure Alphys has got _something_ to watch that isn’t completely shitty.”

Alphys throws an empty noodle cup at Sans for the comment, hissing at him spitefully. Papyrus laughs lightly at the display and moves to sit down as well. Alphys watches him with a guarded expression as he does. As soon as he’s sitting though, she turns her attention back to Sans who’s already starting to look a little drowsy.

“If you think I’m going to g-go get you something to watch, you’re w-wrong.” She grouses.

“Fine, whatever. _I’ll_ go get something.” Sans rolls his eyelights at her and makes to get up, groaning with mock-effort as he does so, “Where do you keep the ridiculous stacks of anime DVDs you collected?”

“Check the back room.” Alphys mumbles stiffly, ignoring the jab.

“Alright. Be back in a bit.” Sans walks off, waving over his shoulder, “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

As soon as he’s gone, an awkward silence falls over the two of them.

Papyrus is content to leave it be that way. Even back home, he never interacted with Alphys much. He knew her mostly through his brother and Undyne seeing as how she had been close to both of them, but he’d never really had a one-on-one conversation with her. By the silence pervading the room right now, it seemed as if it was likely much the same for this universe’s Papyrus.

As such, when Alphys speaks up, he’s a little unprepared for it.

“So… what exactly are you s-supposed to be?”

Papyrus starts, tensing up at the weird phrasing of the question and looking at her where she’s curled up defensively in her bean bag chair, “Excuse me?”

“Are you like a b-body snatcher or something?”

The air in the room suddenly goes cold.

“I…” Papyrus stares at her, not sure how to answer when he’s uncertain whether this is some sort of joke he’s not in on or if this is a guess that’s startlingly close to the truth.

There’s a thick blanket of silence pressing down on them now but Papyrus finds that he can’t tear his eyelights away from Alphys for fear of confirming anything by backing down. So, they continue to watch each other, strained and mute. Alphys’s gaze is piercing, looking him over carefully and scrutinizing him from a distance. Papyrus has to resist the urge to shudder.

“I h-haven’t heard Sans call his brother a-anything other than ‘ _Boss’_ in public for y-years.” She offers by way of explanation, breaking the pause with her sharp, nasally voice, and making Papyrus’s soul sink as he realises the slip-up, “He hasn’t called _y-you_ that directly even _once_ s-since you two got here.”

“Oh,” Papyrus laughs nervously, filing through every plausible excuse he can use here to save the situation, “No. Uh. We’re just… just uhh, trying something new, I guess. No body snatchers here. Sorry.”

His cover-up is so awful, he has to hold himself back from a wince as he finishes speaking.

To his absolute amazement—(and internal relief)—however, Alphys doesn’t push it.

“Yeah,” she nods instead, as if what Papyrus said makes perfect sense to her, “Anime isn’t real, after all. Just figured I’d ask in case it turned out that maybe it was.”

He’s not sure what to say in response to _that_ strange insight so he remains silent, hoping against hope that Sans will come back and put an end to this conversation. But then Alphys speaks again.

“I’m glad.” Alphys pipes up, rubbing self-consciously at her arms.

“Umm,” Papyrus looks at her questioningly, “Glad…?”

“Yeah. Glad.” She seems somewhat lost in thought as she speaks, “W-when Undyne told me that you were…”

Alphys trails off. Her eyes look down, distant, and her scales furrow at her brow as she thinks something over. Then, she finally meets Papyrus’s gaze with a heavy sigh.

“Well, let’s just say that I was skeptical.” Her mouth is tight around the edges, her expression sharp and piercing and her stutter forgotten. After a moment, however, she slumps and softens, “But I guess there’s no denying that he seems a lot more comfortable with you now.”

Papyrus just watches her quietly as she offers a one-armed shrug, “I’m just glad.”

Before he can question her further—before he can ask what she even _means_ —Sans pops back into the room with a stack of DVDs.

“Hey, I found some stuff that doesn’t look like total garbage.”

“ **Sans!!** ” Alphys suddenly shrieks, startling Papyrus out of the somber mood with the way she jumps up out of her seat, eyes wild and furious, “T-those were all in a _v-very_ specific o-order!!”

“Should’ve gotten them yourself then.” He sneers at her.

And then the opportunity to ask questions is well and truly lost because Alphys looks close to a murderous rage that is… actually _more_ familiar to him than any of her other actions so far have been. In an instant Papyrus goes from awkwardly trying to explain himself to abruptly pacifying a fight. He finds himself in the incredibly bizarre position of holding Alphys back from physically launching herself at Sans with her claws bared and jaw full of dangerously sharp teeth snapping in an attempt to maim him while the skeleton in question simply breaks out into sharp laughter.

It’s…

… an _interesting_ start to the day to say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~sans: papyrus-kun~~  
>  papyrus: j-just like my animes.......,,,,!!!!!!!! *o*
> 
>  
> 
> SO IT SEEMS LIKE A DECEMBER FULL OF UPDATES HAS GONE SUCCESSFULLY. B')
> 
> only one more chapter scheduled to be released for this month and it should be out by the 31st ;3c i hope u guys have been enjoying the regular updates as much as i've enjoyed seeing ur reactions to their content ahahahaha
> 
> oh!!! and i think they may have deleted their account b/c i can't see a username associated with their comment anymore but **skelefucked** was the last of the requests from forever ago and they wanted to see cooking shenanigans! idk if ur still around bro, but if ur lurking, ily and i hope this was to ur tastes  <3333


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can u believe that 2016 is fucking _dead_??

Sans actually falls asleep.

Papyrus had been mostly joking when he’d said that a nap sounded nice, but Sans had been out like a light about three episodes into some bizarre anime about little girls selling their souls to become magical or something. He doesn’t really get the show—is only half-following the plot because he’s _still_ not convinced that anime isn’t just something for kids. But, he recalls that his brother had enjoyed shows like this well enough back home, and if there was _ever_ a time to give it a shot, it might as well be while sitting in an alternate universe where everything is super fucked up anyways.

In any case, it’s just as the show takes some sort of dark, gruesome twist and one of the girls gets her head bitten clean off her shoulders that Papyrus hears Sans start to snore.

And it’s _loud_.

It bellows up over the voices coming from Alphys’s large display of screens and Papyrus looks immediately to his side to see Sans slouched into his bean bag chair. His hood is up over his head, fur encircling his face, and his skull itself is hanging loosely towards his chest. Sans’ arms are crossed against his front and Papyrus thinks he can even see a little drool leaking from the corner of his open mouth.

“Fucking _seriously_ , Sans?” Alphys hisses when she catches sight of him as well, “It was just starting to get really good!”

Sans doesn’t react in the slightest, continuing to snore and largely oblivious to Alphys’s ire. Papyrus gets the feeling that maybe he’s a bit of a heavy sleeper. The feeling is further cemented by the fact that Alphys starts to shout obscenities at him, flailing and yelling about all the plot he’s missing, and Sans doesn’t stir at all.

“I think I should probably take him home.” Papyrus says, getting up from his chair and stretching his spine to get rid of the soreness of sitting in one position for so long.

“Fine,” Alphys cuts her tirade short with a long-suffering sigh, “I-I should be getting back to work anyways.”

Papyrus nods at her and goes to wake Sans up before stilling.

The smaller skeleton looks so _peaceful_ like this.

He’s overcome with the urge to just…

… let him sleep.

Instead of shaking Sans awake, Papyrus crouches down and reaches out with both arms. With careful motions, he picks the sleeping skeleton up into his hold. Sans, for his part, just grumbles something incoherent and presses more firmly into his chest, hand loosely fisting in his shirt. Papyrus almost wants to keep him held like that, soul pulsing brightly at the sight, but he knows it’d be impractical. So, he shifts Sans around till his arms are over his shoulders and his legs are dangling around his waist. Being asleep, Sans doesn’t really offer any aide to support his own weight, but he’s light enough anyways and Papyrus adjust his grip till he’s certain he can carry him safely.

Once he’s done, he turns back to Alphys who’s staring at him so hard she might as well have glued her eyes to him.

“Uh, I guess we’ll be off then?”

“What?” She says, before startling into action, “O-oh, yes. Of course. S-sorry.”

Papyrus isn’t sure what she’s apologising for exactly but she looks a little embarrassed so he doesn’t press the subject. Instead, he watches curiously as Alphys sticks her hand out for him to presumably shake goodbye with. He reaches out to take her hand in his, noting that it trembles slightly as his phalanges close around it.

Maybe it’s because she’s trembling so badly that one of her pointed claws dig into his bones accidentally. A sharp prick of pain goes through him and he hisses at the sensation. Papyrus automatically rips his hand back and shakes it out before looking down to see a telltale bead of red arise from a small cut. He rubs it off on his borrowed pants as Alphys stutters out an apology.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” He assures her, not keen on making her any tenser than she seems to be already.

She gives him a stiff nod and a frown, her nerves only betrayed by the way she wrings her hands, before she turns on her heel. She starts walking and Papyrus follows after her back to the front of the lab. He waits patiently as she inputs a code into the keypad at the side, adjusting his grip on Sans as he stands.

The doors slide open with the hiss of compressed air releasing.

Papyrus stands by awkwardly and wonders what to say in parting to Alphys.

(Should he thank her for her hospitality??

How did hanging out work here exactly?)

Alphys glares at him, “Well? Are you going to leave or just fucking _s-stand_ there?”

(Welp.)

Papyrus exits without ceremony and Alphys shuts the doors behind him.

With a sigh, he turns around and hoists Sans up a little higher on his back. The skeleton in question just snores through the jostling and nuzzles a bit against Papyrus’s neck, making him grin in amusement. Sans still doesn’t wake though, which presents a bit of a problem.

Papyrus can’t exactly carry him all the way back to _Snowdin_. That would be nigh-impossible back in his own world and quite possibly _unthinkable_ here, seeing as he can’t seem to go four god damn feet without someone having a bone to pick with him. (Heh.) What he _really_ wants to do is ‘port straight back to the house but…

… he’s feeling wary.

Last time he teleported in this universe, he’d overshot it terribly.

It would be fine, he supposes, if he knew _why_ it had happened in the first place.

Instead, much like the night when he’d accidentally called on his blasters, he has no idea what caused it. Especially considering he’d made several shorter jumps before that one and they’d all turned out just fine. There’s an anxiousness that grows in him because of the disparity and he finds that it keeps him from easily calling on his magic like he usually would’ve.

He looks straight ahead into the distance, eyeing the two paths that split from the main one he’s on. He warily looks over the left fork in the road, a queasy feeling rising in the pit of his soul.

It seems like the only option left to him is using the Gulfman’s services.

He’d never liked doing that back home.

The Gulfman, for lack of better way to explain it, gave him the fucking _creeps_. He had fine cracks down his skull-like face and perfectly round holes in his hands like they’d been punctured through. His hollow eyes were distant most days, shrouded as they were by his dark, dark robes. And as if that imagery wasn’t enough to chill Papyrus to the bone, he never spoke aloud either. He only ever attempted to talk through strange symbols waved near desperately at Papyrus, never quite getting that Papyrus didn’t understand him in the slightest.

He always looked so mournful too, though when he had mentioned it once to Undyne, she had mused that maybe that was something restricted only to whenever he saw Papyrus. He wasn’t sure if he agreed though—Papyrus could’ve sworn he saw the same expression directed his brother’s way whenever he went somewhere with Sans.

(Which only made it that much weirder didn’t it?

What made them so different to him?)

In any case, after having almost every encounter end in an eerie way that made his soul feel oddly nauseous and sick, Papyrus had taken to teleporting directly to his destinations more frequently, despite the amount of magic it ate up. He only ever went to the Gulfman when he absolutely _had_ to, which was usually when he was alongside Sans.

(But things are all twisted up here, aren’t they?

Maybe, if he’s lucky, the Gulfman here would be replaced with someone else entirely.)

(Someone who _doesn’t_ make his bones crawl with the sensation of something missing.)

Papyrus sighs, knowing exactly what the right choice is here. Even if he has to face the ominous monster, it’s a lot smarter to traverse through the familiar than to sink himself in the unknown. He had no idea what sorts of dangers would await him in the long path between Hotland and Snowdin—there was no good excuse to risk Sans’ safety like that.

Mind made up, Papyrus heads towards the direction that he knows the ferry is at.

The red Hotland dust kicks up at his feet as he walks, staining the bottom of his black pants with it’s hue. He drags his gaze up to out in front of him, keenly surveying the area as he continues forward. He notes that the place where the path forks is missing the two guards that are usually there blocking the path to the elevator. He pauses for a moment to eye the scene carefully but, upon seeing no sign of some sort of trap, he files it away as another difference between their universes. He presses on past it, taking the left path and walking down it till the heated air of Hotland starts to fade and a cooler breeze reaches him with the barest hint of the scent of Waterfall at its tail.

When he enters the clearing, it’s immediately apparent what happened to the guards that went missing.

A small group of monsters stands around two armoured bodies that lay motionless on the floor. When Papyrus walks in, they turn in unison, all eyes focused instantly on him. Their weapons are covered in blood.

“Holy shit,” Calls one of the monsters, “Is that the Lieutenant?”

“Well, that was fast.” Remarks another.

Papyrus is instantly on high-alert, a well-worn sense in his body directing him on exactly how to shift his weight and his stance. The monsters in front of him are already standing in formation, readjusting their grips on their weapons and letting their magic trickle out from their reserves. Papyrus’s own magic starts to pulse in the background—crackling and buzzing in his head and singeing his fingertips with its heat.

“What the hell is going on here?” He growls, and he forces himself to straighten as best he can with Sans in his arms.

He has to remember who he is to these monsters. He has to use his alternate’s position to his advantage. Maybe, if he plays his cards right, he can avoid the fight he quickly sees this shaping up to be.

“Aww look, he’s holding his brother,” Cackles another member of the gang, and Papyrus instinctively grips tighter onto Sans who hardly even stirs as he does so, “Isn’t that sweet?”

“It’s fuckin’ picturesque.”

The monster at the front of the group smirks, teeth glinting in the low light of the cave, “It’ll look even better once we’ve got them both smeared against the ground till they’re dust.”

With all the braveness and confidence that he assures himself is just as much _his_ as anything his alternate would be capable of, he laughs, “If you think it’s going to be that easy, you’re stupider than I initially thought.”

He lets his eye light up in a blaze of controlled magic and stares them all down from the gap between them. To his internal relief, that has several of them already backing away, looking anxious and unsure. It’s not enough, however, to get them to leave.

“Are you kidding me?” Says the monster leading the pack, “There’s a bunch of us and only _two_ of them. Plus, everyone _knows_ his brother is a weakling. Rumour even has it that he only has one HP.”

Papyrus grits his teeth and flits his attention back to Sans who is still soundly sleeping through the racket.

He can’t run.

He can’t hide.

He can’t even risk teleporting now, because then the monsters gathered would see him do it and who _knew_ what sort of effect that’d have on his alternate’s life once they unquestionably went around whispering about it to others.

Without a doubt, the situation is tense and if there was _ever_ a time to wake Sans up, it would be now. The only issue here is that Papyrus isn’t sure how to do it without immediately antagonizing the monsters still eyeing him up.

He’s going to have to be careful about this.

“If we surround them, taking them down should be a piece of cake.” Continues the monster, sharp-toothed grin spreading wide on its face.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Papyrus puts on a haughty drawl as a front, frantically wondering if there’s a way he can put Sans down without the monsters now dead-set on being his opponents using it as a chance to attack, “Underestimating me is not a mistake you want to make.”

His confidence shakes them, he can see that much at least. That, paired with the reputation his counterpart has cultivated, makes it so that Papyrus can easily see which members of the group are still hesitant. He’s just glad they’re fearful enough of his wrath not to Check him.

( _That_ wouldn’t end well.)

“Why did you attack the Guards?” He asks by way of distraction as he cautiously shifts Sans’ weight in preparation to set him down.

“They were in our way,” the leader responds easily, “We were just mindin’ our own business, waiting for the Riverperson to get back here and they fuckin’ _jumped_ us outta nowhere.”

The smooth way the lead monster talks positively _reeks_ of a cover-up for something shadier. There’s no question in Papyrus’s mind that this little gang here was caught up in something decidedly illegal when confronted by the guards. The more worrying thing is that they were even able to take them down in the first place—it doesn’t take more than a cursory glance into his alternate’s memories to be able to see that it shouldn’t have been that easy with how well-trained members of the guard are.

“Disrespect like that needs to be shown some discipline, don’t you agree?” The leader finishes, brandishing a knife and taking a step towards him.

“Oh, I _do_ ,” Papyrus grins sharply in return, shoving back his internal panic upon realising that there’s no avoiding this conflict. He’ll have to come up with something a little more inventive to keep Sans out of the way—he’s not going to be able to just set him down with that way this is going, “And you’re about to see just what happens when I administer suitable punishment.”

(He hopes to hell that this works.)

The leader comes charging at him, flanked by two of the more aggressive lackeys. Immediately, Papyrus turns Sans’ soul blue and grip onto it tight. He drops the small skeleton from his arms and flings him off to the side. It’s a bit roughly done, but Sans is safely away from the impending attack and that’s all he can really register when his opponents are staring him down. Rushing quickly into his next move, Papyrus steps up to shield himself from harm with a wall of bone constructs.

The first wave of attacks hit the constructs solidly and Papyrus winces at the sound of blade on bone.

(For the first time since coming here,

he thinks he misses the solid weight of his twin’s armour offering him protection.)

His opponents back away for another wind-up and Papyrus prepares himself for the next phase of his rapidly spun plan.

(He just needs one shot.

Just _one_ proper opening.)

(And if they won’t give him one, he’ll just have to make it himself.)

He digs his heels into the ground and adjusts his footing into something bordering on murderous; lets his magic curl around him in a way that he’s only seen wisps of from his counterpart’s past. It crackles over him, threatening and fierce, vicious intent writ in every spark. Papyrus snarls, flexing his phalanges at his side, and one member of the gang whimpers in fright and jolts back in response to it.

Automatically, the eyes of the attacking party flicker to them for the briefest moment.

( _Perfect_.)

Recalling the exact sensation he felt in the forest—on a night that now feels like it was ages ago—Papyrus draws on his reserves of magic. It gathers, hot and molten in its intensity, shifting ceaselessly behind his back. He conjures a single blaster, large and intimidating over his shoulder. Its appearance isn’t accidental—this time, he _means_ to do it.

This time,

he has _absolute control_ over how he wants this to go.

There’s a heady rush of power that courses through him at the uninhibited fear that shows up in the eyes of his opponents. One of them even drops their leaden pipe, hand trembling too badly to keep hold of it with any proper regard to attacking. The other looks about ready to drop to their knees. Only the leader still looks firm, though Papyrus can see them slowly losing their composure.

He tilts his chin up at them all, grins as sharply as he can manage.

He lets the blaster fire.

A wicked wave of heated magic pulses over his shoulder in the direction of the monsters gathered. He can hear several of them scream as they climb over each other to try and run away. They run forward and past him in a wide circular berth, out through the way that Papyrus came in and not looking back. The few that remain are simply frozen in place by fear, cowering and afraid of what’s to come.

(But how he feels hasn’t changed

and he’s still no murderer.)

The beam had been calculated and precise, hitting just off-course.

(A purposeful misfire.)

He hadn’t needed to hit anyone after all—just scare them enough to leave him and Sans alone.

And it _works_. As soon as the blaster dissipates, the remaining monsters jump up and scatter in terror. Papyrus lets them rush past him, not even bothering to shoot a final sharp glare their way when it’s already apparent that they’re too frightened to do anything else.

“Fucking _hell_ , Papyrus! Would you _listen_ to me already?!” Papyrus whips his head to the side to see Sans glowering at him from a distance, still held firm to the ground by blue magic and looking like he’d probably been shouting for his attention for a while now, “What the fuck is going _on_?!”

(Oh. Right.

Turning someone blue and gripping their soul tight only to rip them off to the side and press them shrunk down to the ground was _prooobably_ grounds for waking them up.)

“Hey,” Papyrus calls out to him, releasing the hold on his soul, “How good of you to join the class.”

“Can’t we go one damn day without this being a thing that happens?” Sans groans in exasperation as he takes in the scene around them, and his reaction is almost comedic in contrast to how tense the situation had been only moments before, “Like, just _one_ day off from this bullshit. That’s all I’m askin' for here.”

“I mean, we’re fine _now_.” Papyrus offers with a grin, shoulders relaxing into a comfortable slump, “I took care of it.”

“Are you so sure about that?”

Those whispered words—plucked straight from his nightmares—are all the warning he gets before he sees the glint of a knife and suddenly Sans is on his knees. For an instant, all he can hear is Sans’ pained grunt and the innate fear in him begs that he seek out the white-furred beast that caused this. But, when the marrow starts to trickle through the front of Sans’ shirt and the leader of the ragtag bunch of monsters grips onto the smaller skeleton tight with a knife held at his neck, it’s not difficult to separate his thoughts from reality.

In some distant corner of his mind, Papyrus finds himself infinitely glad that Sans had been sleeping because that hit looks like it _definitely_ would’ve taken more than one HP.

“You’re going to regret that.” He finds himself saying, and he surprises himself with the words because not only are they _heated_ and _angry_ —above all, they’re _honest_. He’s not sure what it is about this universe that makes his temper so quick to flare, but he can feel it hot and boiling in his core. It pricks up through his bones even as he eyes the stripe of red on the knife in the shaking monster’s hand.

Maybe it’s the tone of how he said it, but he can instantly see the regret passing through the monster’s eyes that it didn’t take the chance to quietly escape while it still could’ve.

“S-stay back!!” The monster yells, desperation in every syllable as it presses the knife tighter at Sans’ cervical vertebrae till Papyrus can see the injured skeleton wince at the pressure, “D-don’t come any closer or your brother will—”

Papyrus lets several needle-sharp bone constructs form at his call.

The monster whimpers and stumbles several steps backwards, dragging Sans awkwardly along with him. Papyrus sees something like tears spring up in their eyes out of the edges of his vision, but he can’t be entirely sure when his gaze is firmly fixed on Sans. The skeleton has his sockets lidded and teeth grit, clenching at the front of his now marrow-soaked shirt and kneeling over in what appears to be an incredible amount of pain.

Papyrus’s magic burns all the brighter, “This is your final warning.”

He takes a step forward.

The monster yelps, hands flinching hard enough that it accidentally drags the knife up the side of Sans’ face before dropping it in fright. At the sight of yet another cut on Sans, Papyrus nearly lets the bones loose, but he reminds himself that he’s only doing this to scare the monster away and forces himself calm—Sans’ safety comes before anything else.

The skeleton himself hardly reacts to the cut save for another barely there wince of pain, still mostly hunched over due to the wound on his chest.

The weapon held at his neck is gone now though, and Papyrus watches as Sans turns his head to fix his assailant with a grim-faced stare, “Better run now, buddy. My brother doesn’t fuck around.”

With those encouraging words from Sans, the monster only takes a second to dart its eyes back towards Papyrus before promptly booking it towards the exit.

The moment the monster disappears from view, Papyrus rushes over towards Sans, hands reaching to check over his injuries, “Are you okay?”

Sans slaps his phalanges away.

Papyrus backs up to give him space as the skeleton slowly gets to his feet, body straining with the effort. Sans’ expression is worryingly blank, a hand still pressed tightly to his wound though it looks like there’s no increase in blood spilling from it. There’s a moment of tense silence before Sans speaks again.

“Were you really gonna kill him?” He says in lieu of answering Papyrus’s earlier question.

“What?” Papyrus scowls at him, “Of course not. I just needed to get him away from you.”

And it’s true.

Despite the anger and the protective instinct that rose up in him at the sight of Sans hurting, it was obvious to him immediately that the monster was far too scared to follow through on any of its threats. It just needed a push in the right direction to run away. Actually engaging in a fight would’ve been a pointless waste of time and energy—not to mention incredibly dangerous given how much his magic had been fluctuating recently.

Sans stares at him for a moment, searching his face.

There’s a second before he gives Papyrus a small smile, “Okay. Let’s go home then.”

This time, when Sans stumbles and Papyrus rushes forward to catch him, Sans doesn’t push him back. Instead, Papyrus is able to get a proper hold onto his arms and get him stably standing upright. He tries his best not to think too much of it when Sans leans into him a little.

Once he’s standing properly, Sans gives the area around them a proper look around.

“Did you carry me all the way here?” He asks, a hint of surprise in his tone.

Papyrus nods, readjusting his hold around Sans’ waist to keep him from tipping forward.

“Huh,” the skeleton looks thoughtful, “That must’ve been a sight for sore eyes. Kinda wish I had a picture.”

Papyrus attempts to ignore the flush that threatens to rise to his face at the comment, chooses instead to focus ahead to the dark river where usually the Gulfman would be waiting to ferry them where they needed to go.

“Come on, we need to get you home and get your injuries looked at.”

“Yeah,” Sans agrees, “Hold on tight.”

“What?” Papyrus says before realising that Sans means to teleport them right back to Snowdin, “Sans, _no_. You’re—you’re fucking _injured_. Don’t overwork your magic like that.”

“I’m fine.” The smaller skeleton insists.

He grips tight onto Papyrus’s arm—whether for balance or for a firmer hold to ‘port with, Papyrus isn’t sure. Much like usual however, before Papyrus can make another protest, they’re tripping through space. Within moments the worn-out carpet of the living room is back in his field of view.

“ _Shit_.” He hears Sans groan and turns his head around in time to see the shorter monster fall back into the couch.

“Sans!” He very near shouts in alarm, racing over to sit at his side.

“Alright, okay, so maybe ‘fine’ was a bit of an exaggeration.” Sans laughs, running his phalanges over his largest wound with a ridiculous grin on his face.

Papyrus feels that surge of anger return to him.

“You’re such a fucking _hypocrite_.” He seethes.

Sans blinks up at him, startled.

“You told me all this bullshit about taking better care of myself and _yet?_ Here _you_ are, fucking _pushing_ your magic to the limits even when you’re so visibly hurt,” Papyrus says in a rush of breath, almost shaking with effort to keep himself from yelling, “Where’s _your_ sense of self-preservation, huh?”

“I—”

“You were going _on_ and _on_ about not wanting me to get hurt because I’m still _Papyrus_ —what, you think it’s easy for _me_ to see _you_ getting hurt like this?” He bites out, watching the way Sans’ sockets go wide as he speaks, “It works the _same way_ , jackass. You may not be my brother, but watching you get injured is just as fucking awful as that would be.”

Sans’ shoulders slump, a suitably contrite expression settling over his features. There’s a tinge of embarrassment mixed with something like shock still lingering on his face, red magic dusting onto his cheekbones. The sight of it makes the anger drain from Papyrus.

He sighs and softly takes Sans’ hands in his.

“Listen. It’s only fair that you promise me what I promised you, yeah?” Papyrus squeezes his hands tightly with his own, “Take better care of yourself. Okay?”

Sans ducks his head down and, though Papyrus can’t see his expression, he can feel the way Sans softly squeezes his hands back, “Y-yeah, I, uhh… s-sure. Okay.”

He nods, satisfied with even just that stammered acquiesce, “Good. Now let me get a look at your injuries.”

Sans darts his head back up to meet Papyrus’s gaze, “Ah, that’s fine, I can probably just—”

Papyrus gives him a look and Sans goes sheepishly quiet.

He motions for Sans to sit up straight and waits till the skeleton does so before shifting in closer towards him. He starts with inspecting the most obvious injuries—the cuts to his face and neck. Papyrus runs his thumb over the one on his face finds it thankfully shallow. Then, he tilts Sans' face up and runs the tips of his phalanges against Sans’ vertebrae to find it much the same way.

They’ll heal over easily enough, even without any magic to help it along its way.

Sans shivers under his touch.

“Oh, sorry.” Papyrus says, drawing back.

“S’fine.” Sans responds, but his voice comes hoarse and Papyrus isn’t clueless enough to miss the red brushing onto his face.

His drags his gaze away from the sight, careful not to read too much into it and forcing down his own responsive flush. Instead, Papyrus presses on to the most worrying wound that Sans has sustained from the fight—the one that’s clearly deep enough to spread out into his clothes and leave them deep red with his blood.

“Take off your jacket,” Papyrus commands, eyelights still fixed to the injury, “And lean back a bit.”

There’s a slight pause where Sans doesn’t move at all. In fact, it seems like he entirely tenses at the instruction. But, the moment passes, and Papyrus hears the slight rustle of clothing as Sans shrugs off his jacket. Once the coat hits the floor, Sans settles back against the armrest.

Papyrus leans in to get a better angle at Sans’ ribcage. He eyes the bloodied front of his shirt and runs his phalanges over the hem of it. After a moment of hesitation, he slowly moves to pull it up.

Sans’ hand automatically comes up to grab at his wrist.

Papyrus looks up at him, surprised by the sudden tightness of his grip.

“W-wait,” Sans says as he takes in a sharp breath, “Just, uh… just give me a second.”

Papyrus pulls back and starts to feel heat creep up into his face. Sans is flushing, looking awkward and embarrassed and making it impossible for Papyrus to pretend that he doesn’t know exactly why that is. But there’s nothing untoward about this. He’s not doing this for any reason other than making sure Sans is okay.

(Even if his soul feels like it’s gonna explode every time he runs his phalanges over bare bone.)

“Okay,” Sans whispers softly as he settles back against the armrest again, “Go ahead.”

Papyrus steels himself and reaches to pull Sans’ shirt up.

He holds back his immediate reaction to gasp.

His eyes travel up Sans’ ribs, a mismatched pattern of scars all along his bones. There are cracks and fine lines all through the dull ivory of his body, most looking old and long since healed but painful to look at, even now. The newer ones look less cared for, some healing wrong and leaving chips in his ribs where otherwise there’d be nothing amiss at all. Papyrus’s soul aches with something indescribable just looking at them.

He darts a glance back up at Sans to find that the smaller skeleton is very resolutely not looking at him.

(That’s fine.)

(If Sans doesn’t want to talk about it, then they won’t.)

He stays quiet, moves further up to find the fresh injury that mars Sans’ bones, still red from the marrow that drips slowly from it. The cut is nearly horizontal, slashing through his top three ribs and sternum, leaving dust wherever the bleeding has stopped long enough to allow it to stick to the wetness it leaves without washing it away. When Papyrus moves to brush a phalange against it, Sans tenses against the pain, grinding his teeth together to keep from making a sound.

(It looks like it must really hurt.)

Papyrus grips his hands tight into fist to keep them from trembling.

He reminds himself that what matters most is that Sans is okay.

He’s seen enough situations where it could’ve been much, _much_ worse.

Papyrus shuts his sockets and forces himself to be as calm as he can, focusing on the warmest, most positive thoughts he can muster. Healing magic always worked best when it was done relaxed and with the best of intents. So, he thinks of warm nights cuddled up in a blanket watching movies with his brother; he thinks of the taste of new pastries that Muffet wants him to try; he thinks of the loud laughter from Undyne as she explains another mishap in the lab; he thinks of the man behind the door chuckling unrestrained at a new joke he’s testing out.

(And he thinks of Sans.)

Papyrus opens his eyes to the hum of magic at his fingertips, warm and glowing. Sans watches him with a flash of nervousness, looking the light over with some semblance of mistrust. When Papyrus shifts closer, Sans snaps his gaze back up to him, going still as he brings his phalanges down to brush over his wound.

(Papyrus lingers the longest on those thoughts.)

Sans gasps in surprise at the first pass of his fingers over the cut. The reaction makes Papyrus wonder if he really _was_ being honest about never having used healing like this before. The skeleton is practically shaking under his touch, bones rattling in what Papyrus would think was fear if not for the way his eyelights remain bright and focused on down at his ribs.

(He runs over the catalogue he’s made of every smile and every laugh from the smaller monster.)

“ _Shit_.” Sans groans as Papyrus passes over the deepest part of the cut.

He winces in sympathy, rubbing his phalanges soothingly against Sans' bare bone and letting the magic rest there for a moment before continuing along the path of the injury.

(He mulls over every little thing Sans has done out of concern for him.)

The bones underneath his fingertips are lightly heated and roughly textured but somehow still soft when he brushes against them. Sans shivers every time a stray phalange catches him unaware, running along a rib that remains unmarked by this new abrasion cast onto his body.

Papyrus wills his soul to beat slower; to not pound like a drum in his chest with each little breathless sigh that passes through Sans’ parted mouth.

(He thinks back to the way his soul floods with affection whenever the skeleton so much as looks his way.)

Right before his eyes, the cut starts to heal over, red and grey giving way to the dull white of Sans’ bones as they knit together. Papyrus is no natural born healer, but he thinks they may have gotten to the injury quick enough that it won’t even scar. Relief seeps into him at the notion, the sight of progress an immediate source of calm even though there’s still a lot more area left to cover.

(He recounts every blush on Sans’ face;

Soft and vulnerable and downright _sweet_.)

“ _Stop_.”

Papyrus startles at the sound of Sans’ voice, raspy and serious.

He drops his hands, immediately concerned, “What’s—”

He stops, eyelights catching sight of the telltale glow gathering beneath Sans’ shorts.

Papyrus feels his face heat up.

It’s his fault, of course. He knows it is. He should’ve known better than to think the things he had while touching Sans with the push of healing magic. There was always a transference of emotion there; a tentative bond formed to keep a patient relaxed and pliant while a healer worked quickly to do their job.

It wasn’t enough to give away any true thoughts—you couldn’t share any images or wordless ideas in such a way—but it was more than enough to showcase and share any sentiment between the souls of two monsters.

Papyrus averts his gaze, “S-sorry.”

He leans up off of Sans, letting the magic at his fingertips die down. They could just leave it like this, probably. He’s healed the wound enough that it won’t reopen, at least. Though, if Sans doesn’t rest soon, it’s likely leave a permanent mark.

His cheekbones are feeling hot again and Papyrus tries his best to keep from looking too embarrassed as he makes to get up from the couch.

A hand at his shoulder stops him.

“Sans—?”

A set of sharp teeth clink up against his and Papyrus instantly stops short.

It’s only when Sans follows it up with the glide of a conjured tongue at his mouth that his thoughts reboot.

“Wait, Sans, I—”

Opening up to speak proves only to give Sans access and the skeleton delves into his mouth skillfully. He licks at the hard palate of his bone and Papyrus shivers at the sensation, vestiges of magic that are still lingering from the earlier healing redirecting towards a new purpose. It doesn’t help that Sans’ hand shifts to the back of his skull and draws him in closer, his bare phalanges scraping against Papyrus's head in a way that makes him give a full-bodied shiver.

Still, Papyrus pushes a firm hand up between them, putting enough force in it to move Sans away just enough to properly speak, “Listen, I—you don't— _god_ , Sans, why are you even doing this?”

“Because I _want_ this,” Comes the gruff intonation of his words, “Don’t you?”

Sans doesn’t look up at him, instead leaning back in and letting his free hand press between Papyrus’s legs, rubbing firmly over his still clothed pubis.

Papyrus ignores his question and grabs his hand by the carpals, face flushing as his magic reacts to the touch and begins to gather at his pelvis, “Yeah, right, that _sure_ _is convincing_ when you won’t even look me in the eye to say it.”

And here it seems it’s Sans’ turn to flush, cheekbones flaring up red. But at least the statement is enough to get him to stop brushing his hands up against Papyrus, though he continues to keep his gaze firmly fixed away from him.

“… can’t.”

“Can’t?” Papyrus repeats, loud enough in his confusion that Sans winces at the sound, “What do you mean, ‘ _can’t_ ’?”

“I mean, I can’t _look at you_ if we do this,” Sans mumbles, somehow going even redder and a shy awkwardness seeping into his form that Papyrus hasn’t seen since the first few days he’d been in this universe, “… you’re in his body.”

(Oh.

Oh, right.)

Sans looks up as far as his chest, magic still burning bright on his face. For his part, Papyrus’s soul won’t stop pounding against his ribcage. He feels a numb sort of shock in him still, body left wanting when Sans pulled away. It makes it so that his magic is left confused and out-of-sorts, waiting to be put to proper use.

Sans had asked him if he wanted this and Papyrus hadn’t answered.

He doesn’t know if he can say it out loud.

(Because despite being in his alternate’s body,

despite being in a universe he has to leave,

despite Sans being a copy of his brother—despite _everything_ —he _does_.)

( _He_ **_wants_** _this_.)

So, when Sans uses the lull in the conversation to lean towards him again, Papyrus doesn’t stop him. And when Sans kisses him _this_ time—his sockets closed and the touch of his mouth pressed against his soft and _asking_ —he opens up to it. He lets his magic form in response to greet him, kissing him back, careful and slow.

Sans arms come up again and rest at his shoulders before hooking behind his head. Papyrus reciprocates by wrapping his own arms around Sans’ middle, pulling him in closer. He can’t help but notice how small the other monster feels in his arms like this. A good portion of Sans’ bulk comes from his clothing it seems, and without his jacket especially that image shatters into something a lot more fragile.

He dips his head a little further, curving his tongue into Sans’ mouth and eliciting a moan from him that has Sans pressing even closer, sitting right in Papyrus’s lap. Like this, it isn’t hard for the friction to build between their pelvises, the heat of their magic clashing up against each other even through their clothes. Papyrus shifts on the couch to get more comfortable and inadvertently rocks up against Sans, making him groan into his mouth, needy and broken.

Sans pulls away from him then with a parted mouth and a breathless gasp. Papyrus watches the trail of saliva between them break as the distance between them gets far enough away. Sans trembles in his lap, shifting his pelvis just that much closer and fisting the front of Papyrus’s shirt into his hands.

He leans his head against Papyrus’s chest and takes a few shuddering breaths.

When he speaks, it comes as a whisper.

“ _Please_.”

A pause. And then Papyrus kisses the top of his head.

He lays Sans down on the couch beneath him, watching the way he easily complies with something like a pang of remorse in his soul. He leans down to kiss Sans again in an attempt to distract himself from the feeling, this time letting it linger and prying out yet another low moan from between Sans’ teeth. He runs his hands up the smaller skeleton’s ribs, over the top of his shirt, making Sans shiver from the friction and glow even brighter red as his body heats with magic. Papyrus grins at the sight of it, the burning crimson flush a treat to see on someone normally so composed.

Sans is impatient though, and even as Papyrus bends closer to him and licks along his vertebrae, Sans reaches down with his hands and hurriedly undoes Papyrus’s belt.

“Whoa, hey, slow down,” Papyrus laughs lightly as Sans curses when he can’t get the button on his jeans undone, “We have literally all day.”

“Fuck you.” Sans snarls, the bite in it immediately dulled when he follows it up with a childish little ‘aha!’ of victory as he manages to work Papyrus’s pants open and then down his hips.

The skeleton wastes no time in reaching for Papyrus’s dick, already half-erect where his magic has coalesced. Papyrus flushes harder at the sight of it, but doesn’t do anything to hinder Sans from enthusiastically engaging in his newfound task. Once he pulls it out, the scarred monster brings up his other hand to lick at before moving it back down and wrapping his spit-slicked phalanges firmly around Papyrus’s cock.

The first rough strokes are enough to make Papyrus gasp.

“Heh,” Sans grins from beneath him, “You’re real sensitive, huh?”

Papyrus grins right back, “Don’t you mean, _sans_ -itive?”

The bright burst of laughter he gets in response makes his soul flutter happily in his chest.

“You’re such a fucking idiot.” Sans says, chest still rumbling with the aftershocks of mirth.

Papyrus only smiles wider at him, leaning his head down again to lap wetly at Sans’ neck and peppering open-mouthed kisses to it. The way the other skeleton squirms underneath him as he does it suggests that the area is delicate, and Papyrus gently scrapes his teeth along the bone to test the theory. He’s rewarded with a low whine from Sans as he continues to pump at Papyrus, hips thrusting up of their own accord.

He’s struck with the sudden urge to see Sans’ eyes even thought he knows full well why the other monster won’t look up to meet his gaze.

(He wonders if they’d be partially hooded with desire;

glazed over in yearning as he looked hazily up at him.)

He pushes the thought away, distracts himself by letting his hands wander down to Sans’ own shorts and dragging them off his hips. His magic has yet to form so Papyrus moves to help him, running his phalanges firmly against the heated bones of his pelvis. Sans gasps aloud at the motions, hips jutting up once more before Papyrus firmly holds them down.

“Asshole.” Sans mutters.

Papyrus just presses another kiss to the side of his face, “Shh, I’m trying to help.”

“Didn’t we have a whole argument just the other day about you ‘trying to help’?”

“This is different.” Papyrus rolls his eyelights at him, working his fingers at Sans’ unshapen magic like he would against his own dick.

“ _Fuck_.” Sans groans, throwing his head back and squeezing his sockets firmly shut, bickering forgotten.

With a couple more encouraging caresses, Sans’ cock forms hard in Papyrus’s grip. He continues stroking it dryly, making Sans shudder with some mixture of pain and arousal below him, crying out desperately for more. With a grin, Papyrus runs his thumb over the head, smearing the precome gathered there over the slit and down around the outer rim of the head. Then he reaches to stop Sans from working at his dick, shifting them around so that their cocks rub up against one another.

When Sans wraps his phalanges around the both of them, Papyrus plants his free hands on either side of the other skeleton’s skull.

The first thrust through the tight ring of Sans’ grip leaves the both of them groaning.

Papyrus shifts his hips again, rocking up into Sans’ hold and relishing in the feel of his cock sliding up against Sans’. The rub of friction between them is amazing, but it’s nothing near enough and Papyrus quickly picks up the pace. He thrusts back and forth, building up a rhythm as well as he can. Sans groans at the sensation and works his own hands in counterpoint to Papyrus’s thrusts, working at their erections quickly.

When the slick doesn’t seem like it’s enough, Sans moves one of his hands to the heads of their cocks and firmly presses the bones that make up his palm against them. He rubs against their heads, spreading the precome onto his phalanges and working it back down over their cocks to ease the way. With every pass, the motion gets easier and it isn’t long before Papyrus can feel himself on the verge of climax, slipping and fumbling against Sans as he is.

“Hahh…” He pants, body starting to tense.

Sans doesn’t fail to notice, grinning at him even as he rocks back with the force of another thrust, “Y-yeah, go on. Do it.”

Papyrus fucks into his grip harder, the edge so close it’s almost unbearable, “D-do what?”

“Come on me,” Sans moans, and the words jolt through him like livewire, “Fuckin’ cover me in it.”

Papyrus bites back a whine, his cock pulsing against Sans’. He ducks his head down to cover up his no doubt wrecked expression, heat suffusing his face. Sans doesn’t let him hide though, kissing him open-mouthed and wet even as he continues to work his phalanges deftly over the two of them. A particularly well timed thrust has the both of them groaning aloud.

Sans’s voice breaks into a plea, “Come all over me, Papyrus.”

As if prompted by the words alone, Papyrus reaches his peak and it only takes another stroke from Sans to make him shudder his way through his orgasm. He watches with his soul pounding as he spills over into Sans' grip and down onto his shirt and exposed ribs. The shine of it glistens against Sans' bones and the monster himself groans lowly at the feel of sticky wetness clinging to him.

Not one to leave his partner behind, Papyrus reaches down and slips his own fist tightly around Sans’ hold on them. He works their combined grip firmly through the aftershocks of his climax and brings Sans to his own shivering release.

“Ahhnn, _fuck_.” Sans pants breathlessly, grip loosening enough for Papyrus to slip himself out and continue stroking Sans through his orgasm.

Even as Papyrus does so, he can’t help but press more kisses against him—to his forehead, to his cheekbones, to his neck. Sans moans at nearly every single one, face burning with the fierce glow of his magic. It’s only when Sans hisses at the next tug that Papyrus lets him go, panting with exertion and going limp against his chest. They lay against each other, coming down from their high and feeling the pulse of theirs souls drumming together in unison. After a moment, Papyrus gives Sans one final kiss to the mouth, letting their tongues entwine, slick and smooth, before breaking away.

He leans up and sits back on his knees, looking at Sans blissed out beneath him.

(It’s a sight he instantly commits to memory.)

“You okay?” He asks, tone surprisingly hoarse for how little he voiced himself throughout.

“Yeah,” Sans smiles up at him, meeting his eyes at last, and Papyrus warms at how content he looks, “It was—”

The smile falls off of Sans’ face.

Sudden silence descends between them, a tenseness ripping through the air from the look on Sans’ face alone. His entire body’s gone stiff underneath Papyrus, expression closed off. When Papyrus tries to lean in to check if everything’s alright, Sans kicks back away from him, sitting up and tightly pressing himself back into the armrest.

“What the fuck is that?”

“What the fuck is… what?” Papyrus asks, confused.

“ _That_ ,” Sans growls, and there’s an awful mixture of anger and fear and panic all jumbled up in his tone, “That _fucking_ —your _god damn_ **_soul_** _!_ ”

“My what…?”

And Papyrus looks down to see his soul glowing, just like it normally did after an orgasm. Its usual white glow is replaced with the orange of his most prominent magic. The exchange of colour is perfectly par for the course.

What _isn’t_ typical is the fainter, barely-there  _burn_ of dark red beneath it.

(Red’s not the colour of his soul.)

Papyrus stares at it, mute with growing horror as he tries to grip just what this means.

(Red’s not his soul _at all_.)

“I—”

“You lied to me.” Sans whispers and somehow it’s still loud enough that the betrayal in it cuts through Papyrus mercilessly, “You told me that he wasn’t in there with you.”

“He’s—he’s not. He _can’t_ be.” Papyrus frantically insists because, even now as he searches through his head as best he can, there’s no tell of someone in there with him, “I’d _know_ if he was. We wouldn’t be able to share a body without some sort of indication.”

“You know what a good fucking _indication_ is?” Sans shouts, visibly shaking with rage and something painfully like regret, “His _soul!_ ”

Papyrus feels like he’s going to be sick, the grim reality settling in on him even as he tries desperately to think of another answer, “We don’t even know if it’s really—”

“I wouldn’t mistake that colour _anywhere!_ ” Sans interrupts with a snarl, teeth snapping and jaw tense with ire, “Lift up your shirt.”

“Sans, wait, just—”

“ ** _Lift up your shirt!_** ” Sans bellows, his magic snapping to attention and red light suddenly bathing them in its glow. The intent in the crackle and pop of it around Papyrus is downright vicious, unyielding in its promise to destroy come the need for it. He tries to meet Sans’ eye, tries to see if he can calm the other skeleton down some, but Sans won’t look anywhere but the subdued glow coming from his chest.

Doing his best to keep his hands from shaking, Papyrus hesitantly lifts up his shirt.

And there, floating in his ribcage beside the healthy orange gleam of his own soul, is the unmistakable _red_ of another.

Except.

It’s not a _whole_ soul.

It’s not even _half_ of one.

“B-boss…?” Sans calls out, voice broken and heart-wrenchingly upset.

There are bits and pieces of an inverted red heart barely holding its form in his chest. It looks like shattered glass, cracking from a midpoint and spider-webbing all the way out. Clear chunks are missing, like a puzzle devoid of its pieces. There’s no denying now that it’s an extra soul housed in Papyrus’s chest, but it’s an ugly, dulled, _mangled_ thing with no clear indication of life.

Papyrus looks on in terror, the weight of dread crawling into his bones.

Sans reaches one trembling hand up towards the soul and stops just short of touching it. He takes a shaky breath in and Papyrus can almost hear the choked inhalation echo in his skull. When he speaks again, there’s nothing but utter dismay in his tone.

“What the fuck did you _do_ to him?”

Papyrus doesn’t know how to tell him that he has absolutely no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**HAPPY NEW YEAR YA FUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (ʘ‿ʘ✿)** _
> 
> ~~i love u guyssssssssssss~~


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, it's hard to believe it's been a year since i started this fic...,,,,, and now we're getting _so close_ to the end aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh
> 
> here's a chapter i know a lot of you have been waiting for (some since the very beginning of this fic ;3c)
> 
> i hope it lives up to expectations!!!!!!!!

It’s a funny thing to wake up and still feel like you’re dreaming.

That’s what every morning these last few days have been like to him. He’ll go to bed on the verge of collapse, coughing and shaking, but then wake up feeling like he hasn’t slept at all, every hour blurring into one messy distortion with dreams that feel more real than the world does after he wakes. He’ll drag himself wearily throughout the house, each focal point in his line of sight wildly unfamiliar. He’s lucky if he gets half a day before he’s on the verge of passing out again.

Not a moment to rest. Not a second to sit down and truly _think_.

Even now, as Papyrus watches Sans bustle around preparing breakfast, his head is pounding. He feels a surge of dizziness that makes him glad he’s sitting, and clenches his fists tight as a wave of pulsing pain shifts through his bones. Sans doesn’t notice at all, chattering on and on about some singer he saw on TV as he sets down the glasses. The apron he’s wearing dances around his form with each movement.

(The image is wrong.

Sans doesn’t look like this. Sans doesn’t sound or act anything like this.)

Sans’ eyes are alight with excitement, bluer than anything he’s ever seen in his life.

(Except… that’s not right is it?

Sans took him to Waterfall yesterday in the hopes of helping him recover, and the water there was clear and blue and bright and glistening—not something one would forget.

So why does he only remember murky, muddy waters that would drown you the second you dared step in?)

He feels like he’s floating in some sort of transient state. Like nothing is quite real. It certainly doesn’t match up to the things he _thinks_ he knows—doesn’t match up to the snapshots of a past he can’t quite fully visualise in his head.

It’s like his mind a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. He can’t see the whole picture and it leaves him floundering with no idea of what’s real and what’s not. It’s even worse in that all evidence shows that everything he remembers is fake, but then everything he _should_ remember is suspiciously absent.

(And what a day that had been.

Waking up after whatever trauma left him in this amnesiac state, inside a basement he hadn’t even known their house had. Stumbling out of it and crashing through their front door only to be greeted by a brother he didn’t recognise. Jolting back in panic at the appearance of an intruder and calling on his magic only for the strain of it to bring him down to his knees, weak and defenseless.

But it was Sans. Beyond the ludicrous outfit, it was his brother and Papyrus could only stare in confusion as Sans stared worriedly down at him and asked what was wrong.

And that’s just the thing.

Papyrus doesn’t _know_ what’s wrong—something’s just _different_.

Nothing here feels like _home_.

But then there’s no record of what he calls home existing in that first place. No sharp smiles and discerning eyelights on him as he entrenches himself deep in his own thoughts. No battle scars and coarse words. No record at all but the broken timeline of events in his head that skip around far too often to be trusted with any real certainty.)

“Papy,” Sans calls out to him and he schools his features to not let the visceral disgust he feels upon hearing the moniker show though, “Aren’t you going to eat something?”

“Not hungry.” He grunts from his place at the dining table. It’s not exactly true, but it’s easier than explaining that everything Sans makes tastes slightly off. That the fact that he’s in the kitchen cooking at _all_ when Papyrus is perfectly capable of doing so himself makes something in him curl up with the unsettling sense of transgression.

Sans wags a gloved finger— (And isn’t _that_ odd. Did Sans borrow gloves from him at some point? But, no. He’s never owned anything in a hue quite as absurd.)—at him, “If you’re not going to feed your rock, you should at _least_ feed yourself.”

“Rocks don’t eat anything,” he deadpans, his own voice coming raspier than he feels it should be, “And if they did, it probably wouldn’t be fucking leftover tacos.”

Sans winces at the swearing but his permagrin doesn’t falter. He doesn’t scold him either—he’s learned over the last few days that that doesn’t work.

Papyrus has to wonder what ever made him think it would in the first place.

(And there’s that piercing feeling in his soul again, stabbing into its softest parts with that sense of discord. All he can see is Sans’ face—different; self-assured; smarmy grin on his face as he tells another stupid joke—and he feels an echo of his own irritation as he cusses his brother out.

Sans laughs.)

The shorter skeleton lets out a heavy sigh before pulling up a chair and easing into it. He stares quietly at Papyrus for a moment before speaking, “How are you feeling today?”

(Well, for one—

Irritated.)

Sans keeps doing this. Keeps bringing this up. Keeps shoving Papyrus’s sudden helplessness in his face like it’s nothing. Like it’s just a simple topic to loudly discuss and not something to be kept secret and hidden away in case someone uses it against them.

(Tired.)

He hasn’t been getting any sleep. Not any that comes naturally anyways.

He passes out more often than not, his body seemingly incapable of supporting his conscious state for more than a few hours at a time. It definitely doesn’t help his mental state either. His thoughts foggy and unclear as he tries to shift between make-believe and reality.

( _Upset_.)

And there’s something _wrong_ here. Something so utterly twisted up that he can _feel_ it. Like an itch on his soul he can’t scratch at.

He just can’t pinpoint what it is.

Papyrus grits his— (blunt; useless; he looks at himself in the mirror and can’t recognise what he’s seeing beyond a vague sort of similarity to what he _thinks_ he should look like)—teeth, “Fine.”

“Are you sure?” Sans asks, not even making the effort to hide his skepticism, “Because you’ve been passing out more and more often recently…”

“I’m fine.” He repeats.

“I just think that maybe you should reconsider showing a healer—”      

Papyrus slams his hands down flat on the table, jostling the plates and the glasses and making his brother jump in his seat, “I said I’m _fine!_ ”

Sans eyes him over, eyelights cautious and posture tense.

Papyrus feels the twisting in his false gut that he does every time Sans looks at him like that.

(But… it’s different, isn’t it? There’s only wariness.

No fear.)

(And that gives him pause because…

… why does he remember that underlying fear anyway?

Why does he remember meekness and a bowed head in the face of his anger? Why does he feel that uncoiling blackness of rage in his soul as he thinks of how _weak_ his brother is when they should stand tall together, strong and fearless, facing the world down side-by-side?

Why do those thoughts feel so real when the skeleton in them doesn’t even match up to the one sitting in front of him right now?)

Sans is the first to break the sudden silence, pushing back from the table and standing, “Okay.”

Papyrus stares as his brother walks away from him and moves towards the front door. Sans goes towards the shoerack— (and that too seems ridiculous; frivolous)—and picks up a pair of sturdy, navy boots. He takes them back to the couch and sits down, pulling them on and ignoring the way Papyrus is silently frowning at him. Once done, Sans gets back up and motions at him.

“Put your sneakers on.”

“Why?” He asks, internally wincing at how hoarse and sickly his voice comes.

“Suddenly, I’m not really in the mood for a sit-down meal with just the two of us,” Papyrus bristles instinctively at the words but, somehow, despite what he’s just said, there doesn’t seem to be a single note of annoyance in Sans’ tone, “Maybe it’d be better for us both to get out and grab something from Muffet’s.”

The name, like so many others since that night he woke up aching with pain, doesn’t bring up any recollection, “… Muffet’s?”

But Sans misunderstands his confusion, “Yeah. I still think her food’s not the healthiest choice considering how sweet it is but… you look like you could use a break.”

And here, his brother gives him a wry smile, bright blue eyelights sympathetic in a way that is absolutely alien to him. It makes that pit of wrongness in his soul feel worse, dragging deep like a cut into his very bones. He stills a shiver that threatens to work its way up his spine, instead getting stiffly up from the table and walking towards his own shoes— (tattered; filthy)—and taking them back to the couch much in the same way as Sans. He then leans down to unlace and re-lace them properly.

Sans stares at him as he does so.

“ _What?_ ” He barks, irritability making it come with more bite than he intends. His soul aches immediately in the aftermath and he quickly reminds himself that he’s supposed to be working on that.

(… he’s… working on it? Is he?

What is he working on it _for_ exactly?)

Sans simply darts his gaze away, rocking back on his heels, “Nothing.”

Papyrus doesn’t press, still feeling too out of his depth to really pursue something he can’t back up with any proper insight. Disgusting shoes laced up at last, he gets back up from his bent position and stalks over to the door, wrenching it open. He doesn’t wait for Sans to follow, knowing with echoed assurance that his brother will follow. The answering footsteps behind him almost make him smile, familiar and comforting.

He takes about four steps away from the front door before abruptly stopping in his tracks.

He realises he has no idea where he’s going.

Sans walks straight past him, “Come on, slowpoke.”

That makes a flare of indignation rise up inside of him. Sans leading him anywhere upsets him in some— (possibly irrational?)—way. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s blanking on where Muffet’s could be, so he holds back his irate outburst. Instead, he turns and strides purposefully forward, side knocking against Sans and he falls in step beside his brother.

Sans gives him another guarded look but doesn’t say anything about the collision, turning his attention forward and continuing to walk through Snowdin without a care.

And that’s _weird_.

It’s _so_ weird.

Snowdin is safe— (relatively)—he knows that that’s true. But has his brother ever quite looked so at ease? He can’t recall.

(Or rather he _can_.

Warm red eyelights blearily watching him, alcohol addled no doubt. But there’s that smile and that contentment and he’s sinking into the bulk of his jacket, the fur eventually obscuring his face from view—

But. What he sees in his mind’s eye doesn’t match up to what he can see right now.)

(Like all his memories are fabrications.)

The Snowdin in his head seems… darker somehow. Less welcoming, certainly, compared to the cozy, picturesque scene playing out before him. Monsters smile at them as they pass, calling out greetings and waving cheerfully. Sans smiles back and engages with them, full of good humour and boundless enthusiasm. Papyrus, when he’s not actively surveying his surroundings, keeps his gaze resolutely fixed ahead. He ignores it when he hears people call out his name.

He hears Sans make excuses for him as they pass, an odd bitterness welling up inside of him. By the time they reach Muffet’s, (And has this place always been here? How could he have missed it? He’s lived in Snowdin for so long and—wait, wasn’t there a bar here, instead?? There must’ve been. He’s sure of it. Sans wasted so much of his time there. Always running up a tab and messing around with that _obscene_ bartender—) he’s feeling nauseous with a rush of restless energy. His vision blacks out in front of his eyes for a moment before returning in the next, his head answering with a spike of relentless pounding inside his skull.

(Something is wrong.

Something is so very wrong, but he has no idea how to fix it.)

Sans pushes the doors to the café open, a tinny bell ringing out as they enter.

The interior is unlike anything Papyrus has ever seen.

It’s darker than he remembers Grillby’s— ( _That_ was the name. How had it slipped his mind? And when did the bar close down anyways? Or is this just another case of his dreams filling in the gaps of his memories.)—ever being, though there are numerous stylish hanging lamps hovering over dark, lacquered tables that illuminate the grinning faces of the patrons lounging comfortably inside the establishment. The tables themselves are covered with what looks like lace, patterned artfully in the shape of spider webs. He can’t help but shudder upon seeing it though, a crawling feeling itching all over his body. He redirects his gaze towards the purple painted walls instead, eventually drifting his sight over to the small bar up at the front.

A slight monster stands behind it, performing numerous tasks at once with their many hands. A spider creature by the looks of it. Unsurprising considering the décor he supposes. They turn their head towards the two brothers as they walk in, the corner of their mouth twitching upwards the slightest bit and making their pointed fangs glint in the low lighting.

Papyrus is instantly on guard.

“You gonna keep standing there, Papy?” Sans calls out to him and Papyrus snaps his eyelights off the threat and towards his brother who’s already taken a seat at a nearby booth. He’s about to respond with something suitably scathing when another monster pulls Sans into conversation, effectively cutting him off. He glowers at the scene, his brother replying cheerily back to the stranger, before glancing back towards the bartender.

Only, when he turns, they’re gone.

A quick search of the surroundings shows them no where in sight. Frown on his face, Papyrus takes a seat next to Sans.

“Relax,” Sans smiles at him as the monster he’s talking to drifts away with a hearty goodbye, “I brought you here because it looked like you needed it. There’s no point to it if you stay so tense, Pap.”

“Hard to relax when I don’t know where the fuck I am.” Papyrus grouses, sinking further into his seat as another wave of pain shoots through his body and he briefly shuts his eyes against it.

When he opens them again, Sans is looking up at him, forlorn in such an open, unguarded way that Papyrus immediately glances around to see if anyone else is watching, “You really can’t remember, huh?”

(That conversation hadn’t been the greatest either.

He’d still been reeling with confusion at the time, demanding over and over to see Sans while is brother, looking increasingly upset, insisted he _was_ Sans. And it was true. Of _course_ it was. There was no mistaking that face, even if it didn’t quite match up to how Papyrus envisioned it.

But still, it had _felt_ untrue.

And it took up until the moment Papyrus saw his _own_ reflection to consider that maybe the problem was not with Sans, or even with the environment around them, but with _him_.

Maybe something had wrecked havoc on his mind so thoroughly that he could no longer distinguish between fiction and reality.)

“I already _told_ you I couldn’t,” he accuses, eyes still on the crowd, but it doesn’t look as if any other monsters here seem to care what the brothers are up to, “Or, rather, I _do_ remember. But by all accounts, none of it is real. Nothing matches up to what I’m seeing in front of me right now. Like someone’s gone and selectively replaced all record of my life with edited copies while scrapping some parts all together.”

“I don’t understand it,” Sans confesses, browbone scrunching up, “But it sounds awful. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be deal with.”

“No. You definitely can’t.” Papyrus mutters derisively.

Sans hesitates before speaking up again, “I just feel like… maybe if we figured out what you were doing in that basement…”

“I told you I don’t know.”

“Papyrus…” Sans looks unconvinced—bordering on exasperated—though somehow uneasily so, “I didn’t even know we _had_ a basement till you mentioned it that day. Let alone that it’s set up like a lab in some one-off sci-fi novel.”

Papyrus straightens up in his seat, eyes Sans’ uncomfortable shifting in his seat, “And, what? You think I’m _lying_?”

(He’s many things, but he’s never been a liar.

And he’s _especially_ made it a point to always be honest with Sans when he can.)

(… avoidance doesn’t count.)

“I wasn’t—” Sans won’t make eye contact with him, scratching restlessly at the table with a single phalange as he sighs, “That’s not what I’m trying to say, Pap. I just think that maybe you’re… omitting some details.”

“I’m _not_.” He says, and it sounds haughty even to his own hearing.

“Papy, I… I know you get worried about me. And I _know_ you think you’re keeping me safe by hiding things from me… but I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s _wrong_.”

“So, you _do_ think I’m lying.”

“That’s not what this is about,” Sans mumbles, “Even if maybe that’s also something we need to address eventually.”

“For the last time, I’m _not_ —”

But before Papyrus can reiterate his statement, he’s cut off by the appearance of a large shadow that descends from the ceiling.

He’s up in an instant, knees narrowly avoiding the edge of the table as he takes his stance. He draws quickly on his magic and forms a single, pointed bone construct in his hand. He has the ivory bone primed and ready to strike, would’ve actually shot it out too if it wasn’t for the gloved hand that snaps out to grab onto his wrist. It wrenches him out of focus, the threat downing on them now facing no resistance in its attack.

“Papyrus!” Sans shouts, and he snarls as he rips his arm out of his brother’s grasp, “What’s gotten into you?!”

Sans’ yelling seems to ricochet around inside his skull, sharp and piercing.

He hasn’t been up for more than a few seconds but already the expenditure of magic and energy is enough to make him dizzy. He wants to sit. He wants to shut his eyes and sleep. He wants, more than anything, to avoid being seen in such a vulnerable state.

(But they’re in danger. They’re being attacked and—

No.)

(Nothing has actually happened.)

As the ringing in his head dies down, he dimly notes that the whole café has gone silent, several pairs of eyes all turned towards them. But he has no time to focus on that, not now when he should be paying attention to the monster daintily making their way down from the webbed rope dangling from the ceiling. They land with a soft shuffling of clothes, firmly planting their feet opposite their side of the table. They adjust the glasses framing their most prominent set of eyes, before peering through them critically.

“Bad day, Papyrus?” They ask, an amused cadence to their words.

When Papyrus doesn’t answer, gripping tighter onto his still manifested bone construct, Sans steps in instead, “I’m sorry for all the commotion, Muffet. Papyrus hasn’t been feeling well recently.”

The monster— (Muffet, he now knows; files that information away for later)—blinks her many eyes in Sans’ direction. She looks them both over, considering, and Papyrus resists the urge to berate Sans for giving away their weaknesses so easily, “I suppose that’s why I haven’t seen you around for the last few days, hmm?”

He forces his body straight despite the way it screams at him for respite, smirks at Muffet widely. He keeps his voice low and filled with intention, “Fortunately, I’m feeling far better now.”

Muffet just watches him, each eye blinking in slow succession, “That’s good to hear.”

“Is it?” he challenges, frantically calculating what advantage she could possibly garner from his health with what little information he has.

“Of course,” Muffet says, a flash of white fang glinting up as she smiles, “Wouldn’t want anything happening to my best customer. I would hate to make Sans pay your tab.”

He falters, “Pay my—?”

Before he can properly articulate his confusion however, Muffet’s many hands whip into action. It’s a flurry of motion that Papyrus has to fight to keep track of as one set of hands pulls out a notepad from at her side and a pencil from behind her ear while another makes some incomprehensible gestures out in the open air. Out of the corner of his eye, Papyrus sees several crawling spiders act in response, rushing back in the direction of the counter. With the third set, she pushes firmly at Papyrus’s chest, knocking him back into his seat and ripping away the bone construct from his grasp with her other hand.

“Now then,” she says as she grips tightly around the magic in her hand, “You should already know that there’s no fighting in my establishment, Papyrus.”

It’s by the far the most ominous thing she’s said to him, eyes slightly hooded and voice saccharine but sharp. It’s compounded by the fact that she tightens her grip on the construct and, right before his very eyes, it shatters into shimmering pieces. White cascades down in small particles before fading in the air, his magic absolving itself.

(He feels a sudden strain in his soul, pulling at him tellingly.)

(He ignores it.)

“I hope you feel better soon.” She says lightly, but by no means insincere. Not in any way that Papyrus can tell in any case.

He’s about to retort with something withering when her deluge of spiders return, carrying what looks like an assortment of confectionary on their backs. He represses a shudder as they crawl onto the table, depositing what looks like a harmless cup of tea in front of him along with several frosted cookies and a large bottle of what appears to be honey. By his brother, they put down an average sized burger. Once done, they retreat with the rest of the items still on their backs and head towards the other tables.

Muffet addresses Sans with a flick of her gaze, “How’s that, dearie?”

Sans smiles at her, eyelights practically twinkling warmth and appreciation, and Papyrus has to look away lest the disparity of the image make his bones prickle any more uncomfortably, “It looks great. Thank you for always making accommodations for me.”

“Anything for Papyrus’s brother.” She chortles, one hand coming elegantly up to cover her mouth. Then, she turns to him, “Is there something wrong with your food, honey?”

Sans snorts at that, shaking his head with mock disapproval— (Muffet winks; he gets the feeling he’s missing something)—but Papyrus merely stares at the food with distrust.

(How can he be sure it’s safe to eat?

He doesn’t know this monster, doesn’t have the slightest idea what motivates and drives her. Despite how relaxed she seems right now, there’s something threatening lurking behind her eyes that he just can’t ignore.

Papyrus doesn’t trust her in the slightest.)

He opens his mouth to respond, only for another sickening lurch in his soul to make him bend over in pain, coughing erratically. His soul feels boiling hot in his chest and he grits he teeth to keep from keening. When an itch works its way up into his involuntarily constructed throat again, he puts a hand up to block it and ends up hacking into it instead. As he pulls his palm away, he sees the residue of red magic all along the bones of his hand.

He winces at the sight before discreetly turning his palm down and out of the way of his brother and Muffet who are both eyeing him closely. Sans looks concerned but Papyrus ignore him in favour of grabbing a napkin from the table and swiftly wiping the magic away. He then folds it up as he addresses Muffet, scrunching it in hand to keep it out of sight.

“I’m not hungry.” He manages, voice hoarse in the aftermath even though he attempts to keep it straight.

“Hmm,” she says, searching his face, “How sick are you exactly, Papyrus? Have you seen a healer yet?”

“No, not quite yet.” He responds, unable to say any more as a fresh pulse of agony rips through his soul and makes him tense up against the pain.

Sans continues for him when it seems like that answer isn’t sufficient for Muffet, “We’re thinking it’s not serious enough for that at this point.”

(And at least that’s still there—their unified front against all others.

A part of him had been disturbed by the possibility that maybe he’d lost that too. That he’d imagined up the devotion they had for each other. But this here was proof that this facet of their relationship was blessedly the same.)

(Sans may not approve of the things he does but like _hell_ anyone else would hear a complaint.)

Muffet seems to take his words at face value, offering a smile Papyrus’s way before chortling lightly, “Well, here’s hoping you recover soon, dearie.”

She walks away and Papyrus resists the urge to sigh heavily in relief, spared from having to engage in further conversation with her.

“You should still eat something, Papy,” Sans says from off to his side, “Even if you’re not hungry, you’ve gotta get something down.”

He eyes the meal in front of him warily, unable to bring himself to trust it simply based on its innocuous appearance. But the entire café seems busy in their meals and Sans is slowly polishing off his burger without a problem so, perhaps there really _isn’t_ anything wrong with it. He cautiously picks up a cookie and brings it up to his mouth. He breaks off a piece with the front of his teeth and allows it to rest on his conjured tongue. After a moment of no ill effect as it dissolves, he allows himself to break it up and swallow it down.

The taste of it is actually… not terrible. Papyrus doesn’t exactly have a sweet tooth, but it’s definitely preferable to the filth Grillby served at his establishment. Interest piqued and cautiousness satiated for the time being, he eats in earnest. And it’s as he eats that he discovers just how hungry he really is, having not been able to consume and keep down his fair share of meals for days. He makes quick work of both the cookies and the tea, cleaning off his dishes entirely.

As Papyrus pushes his empty plates away from himself, Sans, who had been mostly silently throughout their meal, speaks up, “You haven’t touched your honey.”

Papyrus looks at the bottle that he’d forgotten was even there in the first place, “I’m full.”

“You didn’t even put a drop of it in your tea.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” he asks, a little disgusted just at the thought of taking his tea honey-sweet.

Sans expression looked pinched. He puts his own half-eaten burger down, neatly wipes his mouth on a napkin— (It’s things like this that keep throwing him off. Sans was a slob. When did that change? And if it was just a figment of his imagination, why would he make a detail like that up?)—and sets that down as well before turning to him. His face is solemn and Papyrus can’t help but feel it looks out of place in a way markedly different from the usual disparity he feels when he looks at Sans.

“That’s not like you, Papy.”

Papyrus snorts, “And? How is that any different from what I’ve been saying to you these past few days. You keep telling me things about myself that are entirely new to me. Nothing you say is familiar. Nothing I _see_ is familiar.”

And even as he speaks, Papyrus can feel his soul panging in that heavy, dissonant way. It sets his teeth on edge, makes him want to curl up and sleep if only to let the feeling pass. The food he’s just taken in roils riotously around in his body, magic churning.

“This whole place—this whole _world_ seems foreign to me. Nothing makes sense. It’s like I woke up one day and everything was flipped from how I remember it.”

Sans only watches him as he explains, eyelights shrinking in his sockets as Papyrus continues.

“And it’s not like I can remember everything anyway. Just bits and pieces that jump around and make it impossible to tell if they’re authentic or just some past I’ve invented for myself in lieu of any proper memories of my own,” Papyrus lets a bitter laugh slip past him, soul still fluttering with exertion and body growing more and more tired with each word, “… none of this seems real.”

“It _is_ real though, Pap,” Sans insists, a note of distress sinking into his words, “And the fact that your memories are all jumbled up like this is… worrisome.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

Sans gives him a long look then, almost piercing in it’s intensity, “Papyrus, I—”

He feels a sickening lurch in his soul.

Whatever Sans says is lost in the pained groan that escapes him as the ache radiating out of his core shoots up in intensity. It’s the same soul shattering torment as he’s been feeling since the day he woke up without any memory of his apparent home but, now, it feels even worse than before—amped up to a point that not even he can ignore and push aside.

(He needs to leave.

No one can see him like this.)

Papyrus stumbles out of the booth, disregarding the way Sans calls after him with concern. He takes a couple of wobbly steps before he realises that, yet again, he has no idea where he’s going. The house is too far away for him to walk to in this state where he’s more likely than not to collapse in the middle of the snow.

By this point, the patrons are all staring at him again and he can see Muffet turn around and give him a questioning glance. All the attention makes him uneasily, too many pairs of eyes watching and capable of scrutinizing his every instability. He hears Sans call out to him again but doesn’t answer, desperately inspecting the room till, finally, he catches sight of the door next to the bar.

He rushes towards it like a cannonball, straight through several monsters in his path. There’s a burst of commotion as everyone starts yelling at him but Papyrus doesn’t stop for anything. When he finally reaches the door, Muffet it standing by it looking perturbed. Before she can speak, he pushes her to the side and barrels quickly past the door, pulling it shut behind him.

It’s a kitchen, he notes weakly as he collapses to his knees right in front of the door.

A dozen small spiders go scattering as his bones clatter against the tiled floor and he resists the urge to lay his entire body down on the cool ground. His vision swims and blurs, nausea rising high. He tries his best to hold it back but his body heaves as his soul spasms, and with a sickening splat a coagulated mess of red magic spills out from between his teeth and hits the floor.

Papyrus freezes at the sight of it, already stressed soul thudding into a new, overworked rhythm.

(There’s so much of it this time.)

(Is it because he strained himself past his limits and used his magic?

He hadn’t used any for days—hadn’t had the _energy_ to. But he pushed through and did it this time anyways. He forced it despite the way his body protested.)

As his skull is pummeled relentlessly by dizzying thoughts and theories, his body seizes up again. A fresh wave of magic pushes up from his soul and expels through his mouth. The convulsion catches him off-guard this time, surprising him and leaving him unable to hold back the sound of retching and the— (weak; defenseless; could the monsters outside this door hear him? Were they planning how best to use it against him?)—groan of pain that follows afterwards.

(What is _happening_ to him?)

It occurs to Papyrus, as he stares at the mess now dribbling down his front, that he has absolutely no idea what’s wrong with him. He’s been ignoring it, been casting it aside like an illness he could soldier his way through, but it’s evident that this is something entirely out of his scope of expertise.

And that alone sends him into a panic like nothing else.

It’s like every sense is suddenly magnified and he’s abruptly overwhelmed. The pulse of his soul seems stuck in his still conjured throat, heavy, weighted and choking. The steady drip of the waste magic slicks stickily down his parted mouth and fingers, dripping loud and cacophonous against the cold white tiles. His sight blurs out in front of him for an instant before hyper-focusing on the red of his magic once more, the colour vibrant and striking in contrast to everything around it.

Sans words echo like mockery in his head, and Papyrus knows he can’t fix this when he doesn’t even know what’s wrong.

(How could he have let this happen?)

He feels sick.

His soul feels like it’s going to burst.

(He’s weak.)

And somewhere in the back the back of his head, parting through the cloud of sensory overload, comes a nagging little thought.

(He deserves this though, doesn’t he…?)

(He deserves to hurt like this.

 _For everything that he’s done._ )

A hand touches his shoulder.

Papyrus whirls around to see Sans kneeling in the entryway of the door, hand outstretched towards him. Muffet stands behind him, every pair of arms crossed and a contemplative expression on her face.

He pulls back immediately, hissing with outrage, “ _Don’t touch me._ ”

Sans draws his hand back, holds them both up in front of his body like a peace offering, “I’m sorry.”

He’s not being fair, he knows that. Sans coming in now was more helpful than a hindrance, effectively jolting him out of his total mental collapse. Still, he feels exposed and defenseless and he doesn’t think he has the strength of will to handle being touched. And after that exhausting display, he feels wearier than ever.

It’s hard to speak, weak as he feels, so he simply draws his gaze away from Sans and eyes his red-tinged hands— (this is exactly the sort of situation where gloves would come in handy)—with distaste.

(He’s not going to wipe his hands on his pants like some sort of classless freak.)

As if reading his mind, a damp cloth is dangled in front of him from above. He looks up to see Muffet holding it out to him. With the heat of his magic no doubt burning with shame against his cheekbones, he snatches it out of her grasp and begins to wipe himself down. There’s a moment of silence as he does so before the two behind him speak up again.

“Thank you, Muffet. I’ll take it from here.”

“It seems like a lot to handle on your own, dear. Are you sure?”

Another pause and Papyrus can practically feel Sans’ stare on his back.

A sigh, “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“I’ll leave you to it then.”

Sans steps further into the room, his footsteps clacking against the tile, and the door swings closed behind the two of them. Papyrus continues to wipe himself down, ignoring the way Sans gaze remains fixed on him.

(His brother isn’t supposed to see him like this.

Out of the both of them, he’s supposed to be the strong one.)

Unyielding. Unbreakable.)

He’s focusing so hard on his own thoughts that he loses track of Sans’ motions in the room until the skeleton is crouched down beside him. He’s got a rag of his own in hand and quickly gets to work cleaning up the mess Papyrus made of the floor.

“Leave it.” He growls, equal parts indignant and embarrassed, “I don’t need your help.”

For a change, Sans is the one to ignore him, continuing on like he hasn’t even heard Papyrus say a word.

Frustrated, Papyrus raises his voice, backed by the familiar and almost comforting heat of anger, “ _Sans_ —”

“Show Undyne.”

Papyrus startles.

Sans stops cleaning, tosses the rag down with a wet _clop_ before looking him straight in the eye, “You said you don’t want to show any healers, right?”

He nods, slow and cautious.

“Then at least show Undyne. She’s smart. Maybe _she_ can figure this out.”

(What good would that do?

The Captain was a fighter first and foremost. If anything, hearing about this would force her to dismiss him from the Guard. He was useless to her when he couldn’t call on a single bone attack without falling to his knees in agony.)

“You trust her, right?”

He stiffens.

(Trust is a finicky thing.

It’s Undyne he goes to when he wants to train. It’s Undyne he goes to when he has suspicions of dissension among the ranks. It’s Undyne he talked to in the aftermath of that awful night forever ago, scarred and broken, and then again in the more recent past when Sans—)

(But.

Is any of that even real?)

Sans is still waiting for an answer, watching him keenly.

(He doesn’t _dis_ trust her.

And maybe that’s enough.)

He gives Sans a tight nod, “Alright.”

Sans visibly relaxes and very nearly cracks a smile as he nods back at him. Then the shorter skeleton finishes cleaning up and stands, tossing the dirty rag he was using into a nearby sink before washing his hands. After he dries them, he holds one out towards Papyrus, wordlessly to help him up.

Papyrus takes it.

(At least it’s only Sans.

At least it’s not someone who would see him like this and use it to harm them both.)

Once pulled up, he drags himself over to the sink for a more through clean, running the water and letting his bones soak under it. He watches the red run circles down the drain, his magic swept away like an afterthought. Even just looking at it makes him feel ill.

Sans waits for him until he’s done, patient and quiet, and together, they step back out through the doors of the kitchen. Papyrus braces himself for the stares of the monster outside, no doubt ready to scrutinise what exactly his weaknesses are. He steels himself against the bombardment, sockets narrowed and face twisted up into a scowl.

To his surprise though, as he walks out, he notes that the entire place has been cleared of all patrons.

“Thanks, Muffet,” he hears Sans say, an earnest gratitude in every word, “We owe you one.”

“Oh, you owe _far_ more than just one, sweethearts,” she says, eyes twinkling and something of a smirk on her face, “But I’ve already gone ahead and added it to Papyrus’s tab, so don’t fret.”

Sans chuckles, “Of course. I should have known.”

Their easy comradery does nothing but make him feel even more uncomfortable in his own body. He feels awkward, standing there listlessly as they talk like old friends. When they both turn to look at him, as if waiting for him to offer some insight into the conversation, he looks instantly away. A silence pervades wherein Papyrus images them exchanging piteous looks with each other over his awful condition. It makes his bones itch with irritation.

Finally, they finish talking and Papyrus follows Sans out the doors of the café. And it’s only when the bell chimes and the door gives a solid _thunk_ as it closes that Papyrus breathes a sigh of relief. The chilly Snowdin air feels welcome against his heated bones and he squeezes his sockets shut appreciatively, relishing in the feel of it.

Sans yanks him by the arm.

Papyrus’s eyes shoot open in annoyance and he glares down at him brother. But Sans, takes no heed in his obvious displeasure, gripping onto him tightly once more and pulling him behind a nearby building. Before he can even ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing, Sans stares seriously up at him.

“I didn’t want to ask you this inside Muffet’s, so I’m asking you now before we head to Undyne’s.”

Sans’ humourless expression automatically puts Papyrus on guard, “What is it?”

“Your magic.” Sans says, grim, “It’s red.”

Papyrus blinks at him, uncomprehending, “… and?”

“‘ _And?_ ’” Sans near shouts, incredulity painting every word, “Papy, why does it look like that?!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sans sighs, tired and exasperated, “You always do this. You _always_ hide important things even when it’s something that could _hurt_ you.”

“I’ve never hidden it from _anybody_ ,” Papyrus scoffs, affronted, “It’s been like this my entire life.”

Sans snorts in disbelief, the most negativity Papyrus has seen on him yet. (Or, at least, it is when he discounts the fabrications drifting around in his head.) It’s an ugly expression on him, doesn’t suit his usual bright demeanor in the slightest. Luckily, as Sans searches Papyrus’s face, it passes on into surprise, “You’re serious.”

“Of course, I am,” he says, “Why would I lie about something as pointless as this?”

Something shifts in Sans’ gaze at his infallible honestly, becoming curious; inquisitive. He eyes Papyrus over as if looking for some sort of hidden tell. A give that he hasn’t found yet.

And then.

“Papyrus,” he says, a lilt of something absolutely fascinated in his tone, “Show me your soul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to everyone who's been asking me what the heck this situation meant for underswap and everyone's favourite blueberry—i hope this answers your questions ;3 (and if not lmao, by all means ask me in the comments and i'd be happy to clarify <3) hopefully this chapter wasn't too confusing to parse!!!! i thought getting real into ufpap's thought processes would help show how out of his element he felt, but i'm not sure if that just made it all around difficult to follow instead ahahahah
> 
> also!!!!!! s/o to **[Soul](http://undertailsoulsex.tumblr.com/)** for talking me through my supreme writer's block at multiple points for this chapter ;u; ily dudeeeeeeeee //smooches a lot (also, i know you said you didn't mind spoilers but i'm hoping i was vague enough that this was still a surprise heheheheheh)
> 
> also also! this marks the point where pretty much all save a few 'secrets' in the fic are out. so i'm thinking of opening up short drabbles requests of different scenes from the fic that you guys might like to see! so, basically, you can ask for any scene from another character's POV (such as Red's) or for anything that i might've skipped over entirely (like Edge's arrival in Underswap). just shoot me an ask on **[tumblr](http://0netype.tumblr.com/ask)** or just leave 'em here if you'd prefer  <33


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at first I thought I wouldn't post this till I was done answering all the comments but the chapter is done and i'd rather post now than wait any longer B") i've been beyond busy with irl stuff but i haven't forgotten the comments and i read and adore them all, so i will do my best to steadily answer them even if it's been ages ;u;
> 
> thank you guys so much for your continued support!!!!!!!
> 
> that said, there are some possibly triggering themes in this chapter---i'm warning for (spoilers) **discussions of suicide, past suicide attempt, discussion of some details surrounding the event** so please be cautious in proceeding. if you'd like to skip as much of it as possible, please head to the end notes for more information  <3

Sans won’t speak to him.

All things considered, it’s probably the best possible outcome.

The short monster had looked more furious than Papyrus had ever seen him—mishmashed memories included—and it’s likely only the fact that he’s still _technically_ family that kept Sans from lashing out. Instead, the other skeleton had boarded himself up in the basement, working there for hours and hours and locking Papyrus out entirely. They hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to each other in almost three days, and the solitude was starting to weigh heavily on him.

He’d never been incredibly social back home. He could talk, sure, and people liked him well enough when he did but… socialising was always more his brother’s thing. Not that solitude was what he wanted either—Papyrus kept to the friends he had and spent most of his time with them in order to keep himself sane.

Here though… here all he _has_ is Sans.

(And after the soul fiasco… not even him.)

Papyrus rubs at his chest, right where he knows the pieces of his alternate’s core still lay inside of him, broken and near-lifeless. The gesture does nothing to help his situation but it still feels like it’s the least he can do; a soothing touch to the soul of the monster whose life he’s invaded. He gives one last, lingering, look at the basement door he’s leaning on—still closed after countless knocks and apologetic pleas—and moves away, shuffling his feet in the snow as he goes.

He gets all the way around to the front of the house, staring at the thick wood and countless locks, before he acknowledges that he doesn’t want to go back inside.

The quiet doesn’t sit well with him. The mood somber and uninviting. He knows that eventually Sans will come up again to eat something or to catch an hour or two of sleep, but he has no guarantee that he won’t just teleport straight away if he sees Papyrus approach him at all.

At this point, it seems like if he wants to talk to Sans, he’ll just have to wait until the skeleton approaches him himself. So, going inside and waiting for a confrontation that’ll only happen on Sans’ terms is pointless. He’s better off doing something else with his time till Sans is ready.

(Even if there’s not exactly anything for him to do in this universe.)

With a frustrated huff, Papyrus turns away from the door, automatically moving to shove his hands in at the front his body. He meets air, no resistance as his arms fall slack without the pocket of his hoodie to place them in. After all this time, it should probably sting less when it happens. Somehow, it doesn’t.

He tightens his grip, the leather of his twin’s gloves creaking as he does so. He takes a look out into the distance, the main path through Snowdin quiet, empty and unfamiliar. He has no set destination in mind but he starts walking anyway, distancing himself from the house behind him and the heaviness that looms over it, stifling and thick.

Getting further away doesn’t make him feel _better_ exactly, but it certainly doesn’t hurt, and Papyrus makes it all the way to Grillby’s before he’s stopped.

“Lieutenant.”

Papyrus looks to the side and sees Grillby watching him, one hand firmly on the door to the bar and the other laden with what he presumes to be supplies. There’s a strange expression on his face, like he’s reading something in Papyrus just through his outward appearance. It likely doesn’t help that Papyrus is walking around with none of his alternate’s normal haughtiness, posture slouched and path listless.

“… come inside.” Grillby says, pulling the door open and stepping through into the bar.

He watches Grillby go, feeling suddenly displaced. He’s not entirely sure what just happened, but the bartender hadn’t been hostile at all. Despite the way their last encounter had gone down, the offer seemed almost… kind? Papyrus takes a quick look around him but there are still no other monsters in the vicinity. No one whose reaction he can gauge to see what his own response should be to this strange request.

Nervously readjusting the scarf around his neck, Papyrus turns and follows Grillby inside.

When he enters, the bartender is nowhere in sight, though it’s quiet enough for Papyrus to hear soft crackling coming from behind the door on the other end of the room. There’s a soft glow peeking out from underneath it too, not enough to overwhelm the already warm lighting of the bar itself, but just enough to be noticeable. The atmosphere is somehow a lot more welcoming than it was the last time he’d been here, and Papyrus finds himself walking towards a barstool with less unease than he would have otherwise anticipated.

He sits silently at the bar for a while, eyeing the newly mounted display of bottles and glasses with some small hint of amusement. His attention only flicks away from his surroundings when the kitchen door swings open again and Grillby steps out. The elemental is carrying a plate in hand and he walks over to set it down in front of Papyrus before turning around to pour out a drink. Papyrus stares at the freshly made burger, heat visibly steaming off of it and the scent delectable as it wafts his way. He almost jumps when Grillby wordlessly places a drink by him as well, the clink of the glass against the counter loud in the soft ambience.

The bartender turns away from him after that, busying himself with cleaning and prepping the bar. Papyrus watches him for a moment before redirecting his attention towards the drink. He leans over to peer at it closer and gets nothing from the clear liquid. Cautiously, he picks it up and takes a sip.

It’s water.

He puts the glass down again, feeling bewildered still. With another glance the bartender’s way—he’s entirely unconcerned, still caught up in his usual routines—he picks up the burger and takes a bite. He chews slowly, the warmth of the patty and bun and the mixture of spices resting evenly on his conjured tongue. He eyes Grillby as he eats the offered meal, watching him work and wondering what this could possibly be about.

The silence between them offers nothing, stretching on indefinitely.

By the time he’s done eating the burger and finished his glass of water, the bartender has also completed his work and he silently shifts the empty dishware away from Papyrus and into the back. When he returns, he immediately busies himself with some new task and Papyrus isn’t sure how he’s meant to progress from here. The longer he sits, the more evident it becomes that Grillby doesn’t instead to engage him again on his own, so Papyrus takes a second to steel himself before speaking.

“How much do I owe you?” He tries for his twin’s rough style of speaking but it falls a little flat when all Papyrus can feel is a deep sense of gratitude at the unexpected cordiality. It’s entirely different from their first incredibly hostile encounter.

Grillby waves him off, still not facing him, “On the house.”

But that still doesn’t explain anything, and Papyrus feels curiosity needling at him ceaselessly as he watches the flames dance on Grillby’s form, “… why?”

“You looked like you needed it.” The elemental says, short and simple.

A lull follows his words. Papyrus waits for an explanation, but it seems as if that’s all Grillby has to say on the matter.

Still feeling blindsided by the uncharacteristic—(Though, really, how well does he even know Grillby? Maybe this is normal for him.)—kindness of the other monster, Papyrus is slow to rise up out of his seat. It takes him far too long to slip down from the barstool and brush off his outfit, straightening up to leave. He knows that beyond the doors of the bar he’ll be alone again, and with the warmth of the food pushing magic through his bones and the soft light of the bar keeping him company, he’s loathe to go back to that. He drags his feet, and maybe it’s better that he does because it seems to give Grillby enough time to want to speak again.

“How’s Sans?” He asks, almost as if he had been trying to avoid the question but unable to hold himself back in the end, “The last time you looked like this…”

By now Papyrus has had enough looks into his alternate’s past to feel it when a memory comes. The only difference this time is that, with the knowledge of his twin’s shattered soul resting in his ribcage, the sharp pain associated with it feels slightly removed. Off to the side, as if his own soul is just feeling feedback from the original source.

And immediately following that pain—

_His hands are shaking. Grillby’s not looking at them but Papyrus feels like he’s been caught **powerless** anyways. He should never have taken off his gloves—it just makes the **trembling** of his bones even more pronounced as they clatter up against the glass. But then he couldn’t keep them on could he? They feel wrong; **tainted** ; disgusting. He wanted to peel them off right after carrying Sans home but it hadn’t seemed important at the time. “A drink?” Grillby asks, and Papyrus’s grip goes so tight against the glass that it feels as if it may crack under the pressure of his hold. “ **Water**.” He croaks and winces at the sound of his voice. It strikes him that he shouldn’t have left Sans alone. Why did he even come out here after that? He should leave. He should **go back**. What if Sans wakes up and he’s not there? What if he’s not there and Sans takes advantage of that and this time Papyrus is **too slow**? “Here.” Grillby says, and it startles Papyrus out of his thoughts as the elemental places a plate down in front of him. He stares down at the burger and feels absolutely nauseous. He eats it anyway._

The nausea from the memory lingers, making the fullness Papyrus was enjoying seconds ago suddenly feel like too much. He holds it back as best he can as he speaks, “Sans… is upset. With me.”

Grillby doesn’t say anything. He just listens as Papyrus continues to speak, looking back up over his shoulder at the elemental, “It’s different. Not like last time at all.”

He knows that for a certainty, though he only has the ghost of his twin’s strongest emotions to rely on. They still feel fresh, somehow, and Papyrus wonders if maybe it’s because his own soul is experiencing it for the first time through the cracks of his alternate’s. Transmitted from one soul to the other, the memory being relived till it’s a part of Papyrus’s own core.

Either way, he doesn’t know what else to say to Grillby on the topic. But the bartender doesn’t press. He simply nods at Papyrus and the conversation comes to a close.

It’s only as he approaches the door that Grillby speaks up again, “Good luck.”

“Uh,” Papyrus half turns, hand already twisting the knob, “Thanks…?”

Grillby just eyes him over from a distance, “Things have been different between you two since that night. They’ve been… better.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know how long it’s _been_ since that night. He can maybe make a couple of rough guesses based on the memory itself—narrow it down a little further with how tense Sans had been around him that first day he arrived in this universe—but still, all that really says is that it was a relatively recent event. No actual solid confirmation of time that’s passed.

“I hope, for both your sakes, that it stays that way.” There’s something stern in the way Grillby says it and Papyrus wonders for a brief moment if his alternate would’ve lashed out at something like that. Earlier on, he wouldn’t have doubted it in the slightest, what with how violent some of his broken-up memories were. But now, with more recent snapshots to work with, he’s not so sure.

So, he doesn’t even try to pretend to be someone he’s not. Papyrus gives Grillby a crooked grin, tired and weary, “Yeah. Me too.”

He steps out into the snow before Grillby can respond, letting the door shut firmly behind him.

It’s still quiet outside, though enough time has passed that Papyrus can see a few monsters shambling around setting up shop for the morning. They mostly don’t look his way, probably used to seeing the Lieutenant wandering around Snowdin on his regular patrols. It’s a little less lonely having others milling about but, at the same time, he doesn’t want to be in Snowdin right now.

(With the memory still fresh from his alternate’s soul, it aches too much to be here.)

He does what he would do if he were feeling low at home—he heads in the direction of the Ruins.

The path is familiar and easy. Since he’s not racing after Sans or trying not to get caught tailing him, he actually ends up taking it slow this time around. He meanders past what would’ve been one of his brother’s elaborate pranks set-ups back home but here seems to be nothing but a flat expanse of snow and takes a break at Sans’ sentry post when he gets there. The bottles of mustard hidden underneath the top of it make him smile, one of those moments where it hits him again how much he and Sans truly have in common.

(God.

What would it take for Sans to forgive him?)

When the large stone doors of the Ruins are finally in sight, it takes a moment before Papyrus manages to settle down at the foot of it, suddenly nervous at the thought of speaking, even with the urge for that same comfort and relief he’d found here back home pressing incessantly at him.

It takes him even longer to gather the courage to knock.

Almost immediately, there’s a response.

“Oh,” comes the familiar voice of his Queen, and Papyrus feels his soul jump at the oddness hearing her instead of his usual friend strikes within him, “Did you forget something?”

(Forget something?

Did that mean Sans had already been here recently? Been here today, even?)

“Uh, no, I…” he starts, but has no idea how to transition that into a conversation. It occurs to him that maybe he didn’t think this through enough. This wasn’t his place in this universe and, from what he knew of the difference between this one and his own, this wasn’t his alternate’s place either.

It’s clear that the Boss Monster on the other side of the door feels the same, because the Queen immediately growls upon hearing his voice, “ _Who is this?_ ”

The sinking feeling that this was a bad idea seeps further into his bones, because a demand from his Queen has him straightening his back against the door and a truthful answer at his teeth before he can think twice about making something up, “It’s—I’m Papyrus.”

He only just barely manages to keep himself from stringing, ‘Your Majesty’ at the end of it.

“Papyrus…” She says, and he winces as he notices that the irritation in her voice does not fade in the slightest, “ _Sans’_ Papyrus?”

(It’s ridiculous, really, the way his soul skips a beat at that.

He’s not Sans’ _anything_.)

(She’s not talking about him anyways.)

“That’s uh… that’s me.” He says, punctuated with a weak little laugh. He’s a little surprised she knows his name—or even Sans’ for that matter. He’d never given his name out to the man behind the door in his own world, despite how close they’d become over time. Apparently, the same secrecy didn’t apply in this universe.

“I see,” the Queen continues in a tone of voice Papyrus has never heard from her before, hard and sneering, “I have heard a lot about you from your brother, Lieutenant Papyrus.”

“Oh,” he manages to get out, soul pounding and every second that passes making him regret not suffering in silence at home instead of being out here, “That’s… great.”

The Queen laughs. A shrill, ringing thing that damn near hurts as he hears it. It sends a shiver down his spine and a sense of foreboding coursing through his bones, “You are lucky there is a door in between us, Lieutenant. Lucky that there is a door and that I have sworn never to open it.”

It’s a threat. Cold and clear.

There’s really nothing he can say in response to it.

(Though it makes him wonder what Sans—Sans who loves his brother despite everything he’s been through—could’ve possibly ever said about his alternate to make her react like this.)

(How many times had Sans come here, low and hurting, brushing off concern with a laugh and an excuse for his brother, that she’d come to dislike him without ever hearing about his actions plainly?)

“Why have you come here?” The Queen demands, and Papyrus is almost startled by the compulsion he feels to make some sort of answer to appease her. It was true what they said about old habits—he couldn’t break the need to be as courteous to her as he had been back in his own world.

“To… talk.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“To talk,” Papyrus repeats in face of her incredulity, a hot flush coming over his face as he stumbles over a segue into conversation, “You’ve… you’ve spoken to Sans recently… how is he doing?”

The Queen snorts, “What sort of game are you playing, asking me questions you already know the answers to?”

“I… haven’t spoken to him in a while. Not properly anyways.” Papyrus fidgets in place, thinking back to the cold silence Sans had treated him to since the discovery of his counterpart’s fractured soul resting next to his own, “He’s not happy with me. And— and I know that he has every right to feel that way, I just—”

He cuts himself off, restless where he sits, phalanges digging into the snow beneath him. The Queen doesn’t offer anything in response and so the silence drags on. Papyrus watches snow fall with a weary sort of finality.

“I just want to know that he’s okay, I guess.”

Queen Toriel takes so long to speak again that Papyrus almost thinks that she’s left, not willing to linger around someone she so clearly dislikes. So, it surprises him when her voice rumbles through the door. It surprises him even further that it’s softer than it was previously, “You have made a mess of him. I assume you know that.”

It’s not a question.

He knows, on some level, that she’s talking about his counterpart. It’s not about his own actions towards Sans at all. Still, it’s not as if she’s wrong about him either. With all that’s happened—even with good intentions behind them—Papyrus can’t help but feel that her blunt statement applies just as perfectly to him as to Sans’ actual brother himself.

“It is a difficult thing,” she continues, whispering as if lost in thought, “To watch a dear friend destroy themselves over someone who isn’t likely to notice or care.”

Papyrus thinks it says something that after all time he’s spent hating his alternate, he now feels the need to defend him, “That’s. That’s not true he— I—”

But it’s too hard to articulate how exactly he feels about it. He’s seen so much from his alternate’s memories that paints him in a very unflattering light. No matter how Sans feels about any of that, Papyrus can’t see his counterpart’s actions as acceptable. Even though he’s now also experienced memories of fear and worry and concern over Sans in his twin’s mind, it doesn’t make the cruelty he’s seen disappear.

Everything this universe’s Papyrus has done to his only family in the world is without a doubt, objectively awful.

Still. He knows with every pulse of his alternate’s soul against his that he _also_ cares very deeply about his brother. No matter how twisted it got along the way.

“I would have noticed…” Papyrus slumps against the door, shoulders drawing up tight, “I _do_ care about him.”

The Queen’s response is still whispered, but stern even in that lightness, “If that is true… then why did it take you until Sans made an attempt on his own life to begin to change?”

And there it is. Out in the open.

Papyrus had suspected as much, putting the bits and pieces he’d gathered from all his time here into a gruesome picture that he wanted little to do with. But it’s the only thing that makes sense; the only thing that explains how confident Sans could be in public, but how meek and avoidant he was in the days immediately following Papyrus’s appearance in this universe.

It was a recent event. Something that no one had quite recovered from—not Queen Toriel, not Grillby, and certainly not Sans.

It followed then, perhaps, that his alternate had not recovered either.

(It was almost laughable how easily this explained away the heel-face-turn in personality Sans took on when he realised Papyrus was not his brother at all.

Why would Sans have any need to be hesitant around him if he wasn’t the monster that had been there during his most fractured moment? There was no reason to be tense and quiet, waiting for a conversation that would never come with someone who had no idea of the circumstances. It may be that in both situations they were unsure of where they stood with each other, but it was a far different experience between relative strangers than it was between family working through the aftermath of something so horrific.)

(And that’s just it, isn’t it? Things had been changing between the brothers when Papyrus has shoved himself into this universe.

He’d torn their fragile attempts at reconciliation apart.)

“How is anyone to believe that this is a permanent alteration of character on your part?” The Queen continues, as if privy to all his misgivings, “That you are not just biding your time till Sans is well again before you return to your usual tendencies?”

Papyrus swallows, magic constricting till his throat feels tight. “I… wouldn’t do that to him.”

The Queen snorts, “There is plenty of evidence to the contrary.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right. His alternate could go right back to being remorseless and not a soul in the Underground would be surprised.

(But he wouldn’t do that.)

(The part of his soul that makes Papyrus who he is—the part that maybe _every_ Papyrus in _every_ universe shares—knows without a doubt that if his twin made this change, he would never go down that path again.

He has no proof but… he _feels_ it.)

“Do you know, Lieutenant…?” The Queen’s voice is low and reflective, speaking as much to herself as she is to him. “Do you know what it is like to live alone with no one to keep you company? To be closed off in solitude from the rest of the world till, day by day, it seems like you are due to go insane?”

Papyrus wraps his arms around himself, shivering as if the air around him dropped several degrees colder.

“And then, one day, you hear a voice speak out to you from beyond the border you have sworn never to cross and you go, ‘This is it. I’ve finally gone mad.’ Only to discover that, no. This is _real_. Someone is _speaking_ with you and that monster _continues_ to speak with you and, slowly, you rediscover your waning sanity in a friendship that came most opportune.” She laughs, full of breathless regret. “Do you know what that is like?”

He doesn’t speak.

But then, she’s not really looking for an answer.

“And then, can you imagine? What it is like when, one day, you come down for your usual conversation only to find a scrap of paper slipped under your self-imposed prison-cell door? And all it says is ‘Goodbye.’ and you do not know when it was left there? You do not know how many hours have passed since the tipping point or if there is still time left to _do_ something. You do not know whether breaking your oath and heading out those doors would be any help at all, but it is your only friend in the world and, surely, your friendship deserves at _least_ this much?”

The details of the situation make Papyrus’s soul ache, bones trembling faintly with the weight of the knowledge. But as much as he wants to shut it all out, he knows that he needs to hear this. He’s already spent far too long being ignorant of the events leading up to his arrival.

“But those seconds of contemplation turn to hours, turn to days, because you _know_ you cannot leave… and you know in your soul that it is already too late.” Her voice trembles and, somehow, that wavering tone from someone as strong as Papyrus knows her to be is enough to make his vision go blurry, wetness gathering in his eyes. “Now, there’s that bitter burning _hate_ inside of you the likes of which you haven’t felt in years. Yet, you still come down to the usual place. A force of habit, sitting and waiting for the ghost of your friend.”

“And then, _days_ after the day you first found the note, you hear another knock and you’re certain that this time… this time you really _have_ gone mad.”

He shuts his sockets and wipes the tears away, taking a long breath to steady himself.

“So, excuse me if I do not believe you when you say you have changed.”

“I don’t blame you…” Papyrus whispers, not trusting his voice to speak any louder. He thinks back to the first few memories of his alternate’s past that he’d been treated to. Even just remembering them makes his soul hurt and he rubs at his chest as he feels the phantom echo of pain pulsing from his twin’s soul right next to it. “I’ve been… cruel and awful and… and completely inexcusable in my treatment of Sans.”

At that, Queen Toriel is silent and Papyrus smiles wryly, “It’s, uh… it’s been hard for me to forgive myself too.”

Fresh snow starts to fall, snowflakes gently floating down to where he sits against the Ruin’s door. Papyrus stretches a hand out, thoughtful as the flakes drift into his outstretched hand, sharply contrasted against the deep red of his alternate’s gloves. As the seconds pass, the snow melts in his hand and Papyrus closes his fist, putting his hand down again as he stares out into the bright, white expanse around him.

“But.” And here he’s thinking of the more recent memories—of the worry and the guilt plaguing them; of the sentimental pictures in his alternate’s phone; of the Guard Dogs’ devotion to a superior that appreciates them; of the knowledge that his alternate isn’t completely irredeemable. “I promise you that I _am_ trying. And I don’t make promises lightly.”

He hears shuffling from the other side of the door. He can almost picture it in his head as the Queen gets up and brushes herself off, regal even in her abdication. He knows first hand that she’s got a good few feet on him in height and yet, beyond the shifting of her clothes, she makes not a sound. The only reason Papyrus knows that she’s walking away is because the wind sighs as it passes through the gap in the door, no longer stoppered by a presence on the other side.

A moment passes in silence before he hears her voice again, this time at a distance, as if she’s calling it out over her shoulder. “At this point, I suppose that’s all I can ask for.”

Then, she’s gone and Papyrus is left sitting on his own by the heavy stone doors. He contemplates sitting there longer—it’s not like he has anywhere to be—but eventually the solitude starts taking its toll on him once more, and he gets back up to his feet. He’s barely caught his balance against the stone behind him when a shrill ringing noise erupts.

Papyrus jumps, posture going tense and that familiar-unfamiliar battle instinct making him assume attack position. He darts a glance around, pressing his back up against the doors to make sure no one can sneak up from behind him. It’s only when the ringing continues for a third beat that he also feels a vibration to go with it.

He blinks down at himself.

His alternate’s cellphone is ringing.

In the entire mess that had been his last few days, he’d entirely forgotten he even had it.

With some measure of hesitance, and a healthy portion of unease to top it off, Papyrus reaches down into the pocket of the pants he’s wearing and retrieves the phone. He looks at the number flashing up from the screen and doesn’t recognise it. Not at first anyways. The longer he stares, however, the more his twin’s soul seems to pinch underneath his ribcage.

(And isn’t it strange?

That now that he knows it’s there, he can separate its reactions from those of his own soul?)

(It’s so easy now when at first it was indistinguishable.)

When Papyrus finally swipes to answer the call, even though the number is no more familiar, he knows who it is even before the voice comes through on the other end.

“Where are you?” Sans is curt and to the point. Papyrus doesn’t have even a moment to greet him.

“Uh,” he starts, nervous energy overtaking him. The fact that this is the first time the other skeleton has directly addressed him—unprompted by circumstance or desperate cajoling—since the incident makes sweat break out over his bones. “Snowdin Forest. The door by the Ru—”

There’s a crackle of magic a few feet in front of him and, within a blink, Sans is standing there, phone pressed to the side of his skull.

“—ins.” He finishes. Sans turns to face him, pocketing his phone and staring Papyrus down. Papyrus gives him a wobbly grin, slowly waving with his free hand. “What’s, uh. What’s up?”

Sans scowls, features cut deep with annoyance. Papyrus takes a second to look him over after only seeing glimpses of him for days—he’s disheveled and tired. Yet, somehow, that does nothing to detract from how he holds himself up in anger as he stalks towards him. Sans is a tiny thing in comparison to him, but the bulk of him in his jacket and the confidence in how he squares his shoulders radiates an aura that Papyrus wants little to do with. He almost yelps when the other monster grabs him by the arm. There’s enough force in the motion that it drags Papyrus forward, his face level with Sans’.

Then one second, he’s staring into the furious red glow of Sans’ eyelights and, the next, they’re right back home.

Sans releases his grip and Papyrus tries to reorient himself as the smaller skeleton walks over to the couch and grabs a handful of papers off the cushions. He starts to gather them up, face still tense and set like stone. Watching him now, alone for the first time in days, Papyrus can very clearly see how awful he appears. He’s beyond unrested—the discolouration under his eyelights looks permanently etched into the bone, an ugly bruise circling his sockets. His whole posture looks off, like he’s been hunched over for days and has forgotten how to stand when not bent over a piece of machinery. Even the fluff of his hood seems matted down, as if he’s slept in his jacket, not bothering to change, and the angle he slept in forced it flat through the hours.

It hurts to see Sans like this, out-of-sorts and under stress.

(But he has no one to blame for this but himself.)

Once Sans deems the papers as put together as they can be, he walks back to Papyrus and all but shoves them into his chest. “ _Here_.”

Papyrus quickly readjusts his grip so that the loose sheets don’t all tumble to the floor and tries fiercely not to focus on how much contempt was directed towards him in that one word, “What am I supposed to do with these?”

“ _Write_ ,” Sans says, scathing, “Put down every god damn detail you can remember about what you did to the machine.”

That makes him pause. With how Sans had closed him off entirely from the basement, he’d assumed the other skeleton didn’t want him involved at all anymore. Something must have changed in these last few days for Sans to go back on his stance.

He searches Sans’ face, “Is… everything okay?”

“The _fuck_ kinda question is that?” Sans looks at him as if blown away by his stupidity.

Papyrus winces.

“I just found out that my brother’s soul was shredded to pieces and that, despite the fact that you’re carrying it around, he’s not in there with you. I have no idea if he’s in your universe or if he’s okay or if anything I do from this point onward is useful at all because it may just be that he’s already dead and nothing I do will change that. All I have are regrets about not talking to him or telling him I was sorry or fucking fixing things with him before all this bullshit started.” Sans’ voice cracks as he talks, wavering with emotion. “But yeah, sure, everything is fucking _peachy_.”

Even from the distance Sans is maintaining between the two of them, Papyrus can see the frustrated tears springing up in his sockets. He feels sick with guilt. It’s obvious that the other skeleton is holding himself back as best as he can and Papyrus wishes more than ever that he’d had the foresight to avoid this mess.

(Though… avoiding this mess would mean never having ended up in this universe in the first place.)

(It would mean never meeting Sans at all.)

Papyrus takes a breath, cautious with his words. “What I meant was… did something happen with the machine?”

If the hitch in Sans’ breath is anything to go by, it’s still the wrong thing to say. “No, nothing happened, and that’s _exactly_ the god damn problem.”

His whole form seems to tremble as he speaks, tension hitting a breaking point. Papyrus can only watch, powerless, as sparks of magic snap and flicker out of Sans’ left eye and over the joints in his body, volatile and just barely contained. Sans squeezes his hands into fists at his side, sockets still glistening with unshed tears as his voice gets rougher still.

“It’s one thing to fix the machine the way it was _meant_ to be fixed and another thing entirely to make it into something that jumps between universes like _you_ accidentally did. And then, on top of that, I’ve got to fuckin’ figure out how to add partial soul transfers into it. Because, if Boss is in your universe, then it’s only with part of his soul. And that means I’ve got to figure out how to move those fragments back here into his body without fracturing them further and all while making sure _your_ soul remains whole and also that it doesn’t take the pieces still _in_ this universe back over with you.”

Papyrus freezes at that. He hadn’t even considered the specifics of recreating his initial mistake. In his quest to get home, he’d simply been doing exactly what he did before. But, as Sans said, if he did that, there was a good chance that it would simply split his alternate’s soul up further.

If they wanted return things to the way that they were, they’d have to be inventive with it—change things up from Papyrus’s original alterations so that they better suited their current situation.

He’s mulling this over, momentarily distracted, when the sound of a choked off sob startles him out of his thoughts. He looks back over to see Sans rubbing furiously at his sockets, tear tracks running down his face.

“ _God_ ,” Sans laughs, bitter and broken, “I should be able to do this. I should be able to save Boss on my own but, as usual, whenever he needs me I’m useless.”

Papyrus’s soul aches at his words.

Sans pulls his hands back again, tears wiped away, and in the aftermath his face looks even more weary and exhausted. “The longer I take, the more chances there are that Boss is hurting and I—I should’ve fucking _thought of that_ _from the start_ but I was so caught up with stupid bullshit _here_ when I should’ve been focused on bringing him _home_ that I—I-I. _Fuck_. Fuck, if anything happens to him, I—I don’t know what I-I.”

The step he takes towards the anguished skeleton is so instinctive that Papyrus doesn’t even realise he’s done it till he sees Sans’ hands held up in front of him, forbidding.

“Don’t.” Sans warns, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

His soul pangs with remorse. “Sorry. I won’t. I just…”

Papyrus makes a helpless sort of gesture, unable to explain himself.

(How can when he’s the reason Sans is all fucked up in the first place?)

“What do you need me to do?”

Sans jabs a finger towards him, “All you need to do is _write_. Write down every detail you can think of about what changes you made to the machine in your universe. If I’m going to figure out how to fix this mess, I’m gonna need all the specifics.”

“Okay,” Papyrus agrees, “I will.”

Sans grunts at him and folds his arms, turning away.

It looks like he’s about to leave and Papyrus scrambles to approach him, desperate not to miss this chance. He reaches out with his hand but stopping short of actually touching him. “Sans, I… I really _am_ sorry. If I had any idea—”

“I know,” Sans interrupts, and even though Papyrus can’t see his face, he can read the resignation in every line of his body. “I know you didn’t mean it and I _know_ you’re genuinely sorry but I… can’t think about that right now. Not until I know my brother is safe.”

And as he says so, the broken soul in Papyrus’s chest pangs again. In fact, as Sans looks back over at him, gaze fixed on his chest where his brother’s soul lays underneath, the magical core drifts forward as if seeking him out. It patters relentlessly against his ribcage, movements feeble and weak.

Papyrus brings a hand up to his chest, rubbing at it as he’s become so accustomed to lately, trying to soothe it. The ache doesn’t abate in the slightest. He knows with an inexplicable certainty that his alternate isn’t in this body with him, but somehow it still feels like his twin’s soul is trying to making its preference known—that it would much rather be in Sans’ possession than Papyrus’s. This may be the body that his alternate’s soul belongs to, but with Papyrus usurping it, it was clear that this body didn’t feel quite like home anymore.

Besides, if Papyrus was right about his musings back at Grillby’s where he thought that the broken pieces of his alternate’s soul were what gave him the snapshots of his twin’s memories in the first place, then maybe the soul really _should_ be with Sans over him. He knew what he’d want in a similar situation. There was no one he’d trust to safeguard his most private secrets more than his brother.

(So, what’s stopping him?

Why _not_ just transfer his alternate’s soul over to Sans?)

The thought stops him short.

Even logically it made sense. That way, instead of recreating whatever mistake Papyrus made that resulted in his copy’s soul being split, they could simplify it and focus on making the machine switch whole souls between universes without issue. And then, once his alternate was back in his own body, all Sans would have to do would be to give him his fractured soul back.

A perfect transfer.

… theoretically, anyways.

Sans scowls at him, but Papyrus is relieved to see that it’s a lot less heated than it was earlier. He has no doubt that the skeleton is still upset with him, but it seems like Sans meant what he said about understanding that he was sorry. The thought gives him hope.

“What are you looking so dazed about?” Sans questions, arms crossed.

Papyrus tests the waters with a hesitant smile. “I think I have an idea.”

And as Sans leans closer, brow ridge raised in interest, Papyrus swears to himself that he’ll fix things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although there is a lot of discussion vaguely sprinkled throughout the chapter, the major bits of it is can be avoided if you read up until **“I do care about him.”** and then skip down to **He shuts his sockets and wipes the tears away, taking a long breath to steady himself.**
> 
> Beyond that, I hope you enjoy/have enjoyed the chapter!!! :'3
> 
> ~~at the very most, 10 more chapters to gooo~~~


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